


What Makes a Memory

by sunsolace



Series: Lantern in the Dark [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Far Harbor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, Mystery, Post-Endgame, Romance, Slow Burn, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 73,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsolace/pseuds/sunsolace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an instant, Kaelyn Prescott lost the last of her family for the Commonwealth's freedom. So now she wanders, wanting nothing more than to forget. With nowhere else to go she seeks out Nick Valentine. If anyone can keep her from lawlessness, it would be a cop.</p><p>He has a timely case: a missing daughter leads to Far Harbor, where secrets have seeped into the very soil of the island. No matter the old advice to ‘expect the unexpected’, neither of them anticipate just how much they care for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up there will be spoilers for the end of the main game and Far Harbor. The previous fics in this series are by no means required reading, but provide some background to Kaelyn and what's happened up to this point if you’re interested (they’re all one shots so please don’t be intimidated by the number of them).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: [Unstoppable by Sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cxjvTXo9WWM).

Pushing open the door to Valentine Detective Agency isn’t the hardest thing Kaelyn Prescott has ever had to do, but it feels damn near close. The cozy office is as cluttered as ever—or, more accurately, the far desk and filing cabinets are overflowing with what could be the city’s entire reserve of manila folders, while the front desk is impeccably neat courtesy of one Ellie Perkins.  
  
“Why hello, you.” Ellie’s smile is almost obscenely bright, flashing platinum against the bronze lights. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”  
  
“Hey, Ellie.” She has to clear her throat twice to get the words out. Her voice sounds unfamiliar, scratchy from disuse, ringing hollow in her own ears. And then she forces herself to ask: “Is Valentine in?”  
  
The question is obvious, as is the answer.  
  
“No, he’s following a lead out near Bunker Hill. In fact, he’s due back soon provided he hasn’t gotten himself locked in another vault. In which case it’s probably good you’re on standby.” Another pretty smile. By the time it registers that Kaelyn should probably return it or make her own quip about Valentine, Ellie is saying, “If you’re happy to wait he may be back in an hour or two.”  
  
“No, no, that’s okay. I don’t want to distract you from your work.”  
  
Ellie tuts. “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to toss you out into the cold. Besides, without a distraction I might just organize Nick’s case files. Then he’ll be put out when he can’t find anything. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?”  
  
While such beverages were once a staple in any office, it’s unusual now not only from the lack of reliable supplies in the Wasteland, but also because Valentine has no use for them. “Tea. Black, no sugar, as strong as you can make it.”  
  
With steaming cups, the two women lean back against Ellie’s desk. Cupping the chipped mug in her hands, Kaelyn stares at the crimson door with its aluminum handle and tries not to think.  
  
“We haven’t seen you in a while,” Ellie says. “I wish I could say things have been quiet in Diamond City, but between the Institute’s destruction and what happened with Mayor McDonough, we’re still overdue on peace.”  
  
That stirs something. Not quite curiosity, but it pricks the gray veil shrouding Kaelyn’s mind. When she’d walked into Diamond City, the security patrols had been doubled and people stood in furtive clusters, gossiping more quietly than usual. “Mayor McDonough?”  
  
“He was a synth this whole time. I can hardly believe it. He managed to shoot Danny Sullivan—poor guy will live, thankfully—before Piper confronted him.”  
  
Of course Piper did. Kaelyn nods once, more because it’s the expected thing to do.  
  
“You look tired. It’s been a long few weeks for all of us, I take it?”  
  
Under Ellie’s innocuous gaze, Kaelyn remembers this woman is _Valentine’s_ secretary. He wouldn’t hire someone simply for a pretty face. “Ever since the Institute was destroyed I’ve just been… moving around.” Not back, not forward.   
  
“It’s all anyone’s talking about these days. No one could miss that explosion. Nick said it was the Institute going up in flames.” Ellie traces the rim of her mug with one slender alabaster finger. “I’m sorry about your son.” Oft-used words from her tongue, her mouth intimately familiar with the shape of them, but still tempered with genuine sorrow every time. Today is no different.  
  
Kaelyn’s on her feet at once. Her tea is barely touched. “Just tell Valentine I stopped by, okay?”   
  
It isn’t until she reaches the marketplace that she can breathe again.  
  
Kaelyn leans against a shack wall, protected in the shade cast by the surrounding alleys. The once-red awnings, now a wan pink, flutter under a tepid mid-afternoon breeze, shaking loose dust that drifts down onto counters and heads and mud. The tin roofs fared no better, their rust-speckled shine dulled to a sulky gray-brown. Fine powder softens the grain of the wood at her back and dulls the warm copper of her skin. Still, the dust has mostly settled now. If only Kaelyn can say the same for herself.

—

For days afterward, Boston was submerged in dust. Kicked up by the shock wave, the shroud stretched for miles to cloak the streets in faded brown. At first, few were willing to brave the dry mist and poor visibility and acrid radiation. Raiders and settlers alike bunkered down in what cover they could find. Even super mutants were confused by the strange fog, calling out questions to their brothers, confined to their towers with whatever meats dangled in their nets.  
  
Only ferals remained a danger, wandering unseen in the dust, their bloated flesh powdered tan. More than once the hollow drag of feet on asphalt came from bare yards away—always followed by a spray of gunfire.  
  
With that place behind her ribs cold and hard and aching, she walked. Shivering ash collected on her eyelashes like snow. The sun was a flat yellow disk that hardly burned one’s eyes. Kaelyn’s power armor made it as far as Concord before flashing alerts overwhelmed her HUD and the fusion core died. There was nothing for it but to dump her power armor somewhere inconspicuous and pray no raider could repair the damn thing in the meantime.  
  
When it rained two days later, the water was brown.

—

It was Fort Hagen that turned her around.  
  
Lying on her stomach, Kaelyn peered down the scope of her sniper rifle to observe the valley below. From her rocky perch, she had an excellent view of the dry woods dotted with clearings and houses. In the distance, the freeway overpass ran north to south, its creaking a mournful song.  
  
For the last hour, Kaelyn watched a yao guai, a herd of raddeer and a pack of scavvers crawl in the valley below while the sun crawled in the sky overhead. Deacon didn’t have to teach her patience, only how to use it out here. While Valentine’s hand-me-down fedora shaded her face, the back of her neck burned from the heat and sweat dampened the collar of her borrowed plaid shirt. Her patrolman glasses kept the worst of the glare from her bloodshot eyes.  
  
Movement below caught her attention. Probably raiders, from their rough armor and eager prowl, scouring the streets for easy prey. At the top of the hill resided the satellite array, with a trail of decayed town houses leading down to the suburb. The gang sauntered down the main street, and what did they pass but the fort with with its patriotic banners and broken turrets.  
  
She drew a bead on the potential hostiles. Her finger twitched on the trigger.  
  
Hesitated.  
  
Instead, Kaelyn lowered her head until her brow touched the ground. Her hands ached in time with her pulse under their bandages, but she couldn’t loosen her grip on the rifle.  
  
The specter of that place drew the memories from her, one by one, like a mud-choked rope pulled inch by inch from a bog. Dogmeat. The fort’s defenses. Taunts over the speakers.  
  
Kellogg.  
  
Valentine.  
  
Kaelyn’s heart twisted behind her ribs, somehow finding the will to contort itself in one more painful loop. As if it wasn’t knotted enough already. Closing her eyes, she rolled onto her back and let her fedora cover her face.  
  
Not for the first time, she wondered how the man whose family was murdered became the man who did the murdering. Her husband hadn’t even been the first of his victims. But Kellogg had been a mercenary—a killer—since he fled his parents’ home.  
  
She would have liked to think she was different.  
  
She really would.  
  
Kaelyn had to check there was no more blood crusted under her nails. Then she was on her knees, hunching over to avoid becoming a target, shoving her water canteen into her bag and collecting her rifle. With no time to waste, she slid down the hill to the cracked road. Spurred by the phantom over her shoulder, Kaelyn set southeast, away from the outskirts, towards Boston—towards Diamond City.   
  
Fort Hagen loomed behind her, and the dry breeze rattled like mocking laughter.

—

Vadim’s hearty laugh heralds Kaelyn’s entrance into the Dugout Inn. He leans behind the bar, scrubbing half-heartedly at a stain on the counter to fulfill his cleaning obligations to his brother Yefim. After parting with what few of her precious caps remain and dumping her gear in her room, she wanders back out to the bar.  
  
Vadim takes one look at her and pours a glass of Bobrov’s Best. “This one on the house. Gift from my brother, yes, who would miss me so were I killed.”  
  
Given the early hour, Kaelyn easily claims a mustard yellow loveseat near one of the corners, facing the wall. A plant sits in a terracotta pot beside the armrest, brushing her arm, its broad leaves unnatural in their verdant color.  
  
The liquor is _awful_. It crawls down her throat with kerosene-coated razors while her nostril hairs burn and beg for mercy. She coughs and splutters and hears Vadim laugh behind her.  
  
So she drinks the whole damn thing, one eye-searing sip at a time.  
  
Kaelyn watches the dead clock pinned on the wall like the trophy head of some hunted animal, marking a grand victory. 9:47am. As she knows from experience, nuclear detonations are always a grand thing to behold.

—

Atop Mass Fusion, with the city sprawled beneath them like a carpet, Kaelyn’s fingers hovered above the detonator, twitching. They left it to her—her conscience. Her revenge.  
  
Her family.  
  
She remembered those last words between her and her son. Cutting words. Shaun wanted her to just leave. So she’d walked out the door, slowly, giving him one last chance to change his mind.   
  
He never did.   
  
Out of sight, she pressed her back against the wall next to his door. Watched the stairs and waited for his shallow breathing to fade into silence.  
  
Then she’d killed everything between her and the reactor core.  
  
 _Shaun is—_  
  
Her fist pounded the button.  
  
At first, silence. It cut with every passing moment, inching under her skin with razor-edged doubts: what if they hadn’t rigged the detonator properly? What if someone disabled their makeshift bomb? What if it didn’t—  
  
The ground rumbled and the fireball mushroomed up. Bathed the sky in fire.   
  
And then the shock wave bellowed through the city.  
  
Kaelyn hunched, half-turned, arms up to protect her face while someone screamed _get the elevator down_ now—  
  
The shock wave hit Mass Fusion, rattling the floor under their boots, staggering them with a solid wall of air. Adrenaline cold on her tongue and radiation hot on her face.  
  
It took a long time for the shaking to stop. When it did, she uncurled from the ball she’d hunched in and rose to her feet. There were faces around her. She thought she heard a voice. Maybe she answered. But she walked and kept walking until she stepped into the dust.  
  
She never looked back.

—

Such an inconstant thing, memory. Where once she could recall Nate’s smile or Shaun’s laugh, now all she can see is fire.

—

The creek gurgled around Kaelyn’s thighs, its smooth-turned pebble bed like shards of ice under her knees. Aspens clustered as close as they dared along the bank, shivering in the encroaching evening. Her pip-boy sat abandoned behind her on the bank beside her satchel and sniper rifle. In the dim light, the tannin-stained water had a hide of rippling ink. Stripped down to a bra and trousers, she scrubbed the stains out of her shirt with fistfuls of gravel.  
  
She couldn’t get rid of the smell of blood.  
  
Kaelyn stiffened. Water slid and gurgled around her knees. The reedy whispers of the trees couldn’t mask the haunting absence of an insect chorus. Then she whirled, spraying water, lunging for Deliverer to aim at—  
  
“Easy, tiger. I’m too pretty to be shot.”  
  
Her sigh almost bent her in half, she was so relieved. Lowering her pistol, she switched the safety back on.  
  
Deacon waded into the creek and crouched beside Kaelyn. Turning her hands over between his own, he said, too-light, “Soap isn’t good enough for you? I think you’ve done a great job here—if your goal was to flay your skin off, that is.”  
  
Kaelyn looked down, past their hands. In the murky twilight, her reflection was a blue-black shade, eyeless, depthless. Short locks of hair fell in her eyes like icy blades. With some more coaxing from Deacon, she unfurled her fingers to let the gravel pieces fall through, plunking into the creek like bullets.  
  
He smiled at that, and it was too genuine for comfort. “Doesn’t that feel better? I don’t know about you, but I am freezing. Take pity on little old me and get us out of the water?”  
  
Rising to her feet almost ended in disaster when her sore ankles rolled and her calves were overwhelmed by pins and needles. Deacon caught her by the elbow before she faceplanted into the creek and together they wobbled to shore.  
  
Kaelyn handed the towel to him first. “You said you were cold.”  
  
He hesitated a half-second before accepting. “You bet.”  
  
After patting down the calves of his soaked jeans, he passed the towel back. Kaelyn scrubbed the thin material over the gooseflesh on her arms, her chest, her legs.   
  
When she lowered the towel from her face, Deacon held out one of his own shirts, this one of soft red plaid that buttoned up the front. “Since yours is wet, I’ll swap you.”  
  
His shirt was like a hug of kerosene and lies. Deacon wasn’t that much larger than her, but his shoulders were broad enough that the sleeves fell almost to her elbows. Between it and her jacket, she could one day feel warm again.  
  
As it turned out, Deacon didn’t turn his back and rifle through her belongings just to give her a measure of privacy while she changed. He returned with her pip-boy, the screen casting an eerie green evanescence across his glasses, and checked the Geiger counter at the creek. “Today’s your lucky day, pal. All clear. How about Cram? I could really go for some Cram.”  
  
But before that, Deacon tended her raw hands, bandaging them with scratchy strips of what may have once been bedsheets. He took care of the cooking while she sat with her hands in her lap and watched the fire. She ate because it was expected, because he’d chide her with too-gentle jokes otherwise. All she could taste was ash in her mouth and copper in her nose.   
  
They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. He understood that warped perception where all one knew was blood.  
  
Afterward, they sat back to back, passing a bottle of bourbon between them. Deacon’s back was like a sun-soaked brick wall on a stiff fall morning. She leaned back as far as she could, until her head fitted the curve of his nape.   
  
“Is there anything in particular you want me to tell Dez?”  
  
Of course.  
  
Of course Deacon knew.  
  
Remarkably generous of him, if he wasn’t simply gauging her answer. “Lie however you want,” she said, “but leave me out of it.”  
  
The night had dragged into the darkest hours of morning when Kaelyn packed her satchel. Empty wrappers dumped, her remaining supplies arranged, damp shirt squeezed into a ball behind her water canisters. She checked her weapons were all loaded and slung her sniper rifle over her shoulder.  
  
Firelight flared orange on Deacon’s sunglasses, but he allowed her to slip away into the night without a word.

—

“Well I’ll be.” As Valentine sits beside Kaelyn, the familiar wash of cigarettes and motor oil tingles in her nose. “It’s real good to see you again, partner.”  
  
“Likewise.”  
  
Valentine leans back on the couch, his mouth still curled in that welcoming smile, giving her an extended opportunity to return it. But Kaelyn doesn’t miss the fact that when he kicks one foot onto the coffee table and folds his hands across his stomach, his movements are slow, measured, as though not to startle her.  
  
The words roll around her mouth. Kaelyn tests them, tries them on, mixing and matching like experimenting with mods on her pistol.  
  
Valentine waits her out.  
  
Finally: “Are you still in the market for a partner? I think I should just… stick with you for a while. Follow your lead.”  
  
“You know you’re always welcome to, partner.” While his smile is warm, his eyes are sharp, flitting from her face to her shoulders to her belt, seeking any indication of where she’s been for the past month. In truth, she can’t betray what she doesn’t remember.  
  
“Haven’t seen ya in a while,” he continues, casually, as if their last parting wasn’t moments after she’d triggered a nuclear detonation. “Folks got real worried—they were on the verge of hiring me to track you down. Wouldn’t have charged ‘em for it.”  
  
Her fingers tighten on her empty glass. Ice on ice. “I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“Well all right then. You rest up. We’ll get to work starting tomorrow.” Valentine’s smile fades to something harder. “Change of shift for all the killers in the Commonwealth.”  
  
Kaelyn can’t hide her flinch.

—

When she’d told Dez no more missions, she’d meant it.  
  
What Kaelyn remembered first about that day was the weather: soft white clouds strafed across the faded sky, casting a patchwork of blue shadows on the ground. Along the horizon they were darker, bruising the sky violet. She’d hoped to find shelter from the looming clouds in case they decided to dump their payload on the Commonwealth. She followed the road to the crest of the hill, seeking high ground away from any nearby creeks or ditches.  
  
In a small clearing, just out of view from the road, was a cabin of pre-war construction with two walls and no roof. Out front were wooden barricades angled around a smoldering fire. Sinking into a crouch, Kaelyn eased her laser musket from her shoulder and looked through the scope.  
  
Too quiet, signs of recent life—and a limp hand that peeked out from behind one of the barricades.  
  
With her musket raised and primed, she slunk into the open. The hand belonged to a woman whose milky eyes stared past Kaelyn to the sky. There were two more bodies splayed over dark puddles and a deck of cards scattered in the churned mud like tiny stepping stones, betraying the royal flush of one player.  
  
What Kaelyn had was broken pieces. Three dead scavvers, but enough sleeping bags inside—if the cabin still counted as inside when its roof was strewn across the yard—for six. No supplies to be seen but many spent rounds. An unlit lantern sat on the steps, and another on one of the window sills. Underneath the leather coat of one man was a vest with a thick padding that she’s become very familiar with. Ballistic weave. It had done no good against the red slash in his neck.  
  
Then she spied the railsign painted on the wall in luminescent white.  
  
Whoever the culprits, they felt no need to be subtle. A track lead through the scrub, marked by bent grass and snapped twigs and prints in the dirt—a trail so obvious she didn’t even need Dogmeat to follow it. Blood smeared across torn leaves, mingling with sap.  
  
She followed the trail.  
  
In the woods, there was another body—a raider this time, who wore a gas mask with nails spiking outward from the forehead. Kaelyn was glad she didn’t have to see the woman’s face.   
  
She kept moving, seeking the places where the grass was bent and the ground scarred as if something heavy had been dragged across it. Her reward was a factory with a broken chain-link fence serving as a perimeter. The gang had situated themselves in the yard, claiming overturned trucks and prefabs to build a network of shoddy wooden shacks and walkways. A car-sized fire pit belched oily black smoke that stung Kaelyn’s nose even from her distant position.   
  
Easing her sniper rifle off her shoulder, she peered down the scope. The gang were partying and betting over the spoils from their latest raid, with no shortage of home-brewed alcohol to dull their senses. And then there were the cages. A staple of raiders and super mutants alike.  
  
Empty.  
  
So Kaelyn looked to the bodies dangling from the crane’s arm. Along with immediate regret was confirmation that two captives had indeed been synths.   
  
Once, she would have gagged into her sleeve at the sight. But now—now she just felt cold. She suspected that discovering their prisoners were synths had been incidental, given there was a third corpse that had been given the same treatment.  
  
Kaelyn swapped her sniper rifle for Deliverer.  
  
When two raiders started a brawl over a jacket, knocking into a quartet of card players, Kaelyn made her move. Avoiding the outer sentries was easy; avoiding the spotlights was trickier. She crept to the stairs at the far end of the factory and eased the doors open.   
  
Down the unguarded corridor and through the double doors, she was deposited in another corridor, this one with broken windows that offered a view of the showroom floor and its grisly raider decor. Another large bonfire claimed a central position on the floor, coughing up plumes of smoke to stain the walls with soot. Makeshift ramps spiraled upward between crumbling walls and rusted catwalks, making a crude tower of sorts that would give the defenders an advantage.  
  
Contrary to what may have been expected, the raiders in here were quieter than their brethren outside. Hunkering down below the windowsill, Kaelyn listened, guessed the positions of the enemies around the room, and carefully looked out to check. As she did, two raiders slunk up one of the wooden ramps to a barrel-chested man with a white-painted gas mask and a headdress of electrical wires. He grabbed the smaller of the two underlings by the neck and bent him back over the three-story drop until his squeaking was audible from Kaelyn’s position. Then with a laugh, the leader released his underling to survive. For the moment, at least.  
  
There.  
  
Kaelyn waited for the watching raiders—seven of them arrayed around the bonfire and the catwalks—to lose interest in the scuffle before she moved. She stuck to the walls, hiding under benches or in dark corners when a raider passed by.  
  
An office on the top story that overlooked the showroom floor would have made a decent perch for Kaelyn and her sniper rifle, as would a niche accessible from the one of the catwalks, offering a measure of cover against multiple foes when they inevitably discovered her. Instead, she ghosted through the factory at the leader’s heels as he ascended the stairs to the highest balcony, the railings flanked by bloody spikes. The richest of spoils were stored here in boxes and shelves or just dumped in the corners when he ran out of storage space.  
  
Her feet made no noise.  
  
She halted when he did. The leader stood at the balcony, a bulging silhouette of black against the orange glow of the bonfire, fists crushing the railing. His lackeys, his _beasts_ at his beck and call, were arrayed around him in the spaces below.  
  
Kaelyn aimed Deliverer at the back of his head.  
  
She pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I've edited this fic one more time and caught an embarrassing number of typos. No major changes, just some extra polish.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m experimenting with illustrations, so have some crappy artwork to go with the fic! If anyone has issues viewing any images let me know.

There is never a shortage of cases to close.  
  
Even with her hangover—she’d had one glass, _one_ —Kaelyn is eager to get going when Ellie gives them the details of someone who radioed the agency for help. They have little information to go by, but one detail sticks out.  
  
It’s a missing person case.  
  
Too-bright sunlight pours into the market square, curling around Kaelyn’s patrolman glasses to poke the corners of her eyes. Vadim had offered her a guaranteed hangover cure and she’d been about to down it when Yefim informed her it was alcoholic.  
  
At the city gates, Valentine says, “It’ll be a long walk. That’s how the hardest cases always start.”  
  
She isn’t dissuaded.  
  
Following Valentine is the safest option. His methods are above board—even if he sometimes serves as judge, jury and executioner—and his care for his clients shows in his thorough work, as Kaelyn would know. He can keep her above board. If she’s going to kill, it may as well be for whatever cause he deems worthy. Kellogg won’t get the last laugh.  
  
It’s by Valentine’s suggestion that they find shelter for the night in Salem, long after the sun has set. Kaelyn only agrees because protesting would bring undue attention, even if she can’t sleep for fear of the dreams. When she abandons the pretense, sitting up and stretching the knots in her back, Valentine hands her a steaming mug. She holds it close and curls around it for warmth, but tea can’t chase the taste of rust from her throat. Her hands are still sore, despite the bandages coming off days ago.  
  
Kaelyn feels like he should be able to take one look at her and _know_. Cops sometimes developed a sense for the smell of guilt. When she can’t take it any more, she asks, “Valentine?”  
  
“Something you need?”  
  
“You’ve seen a lot of cases in your time. Is the only punishment out here death?”  
  
“Diamond City’s got a lockup, but it’s up to city security and the mayor’s discretion who ends up staring at the bars. For the most part, thieves and murderers don’t come quietly these days.”  
  
She nods as if this is a purely hypothetical discussion. “Without courts or judges, who decides what’s justice and what isn’t?”  
  
Valentine considers, tapping his fingers against the screwdriver in his grasp. He’d been in the middle of a tune up when she’d ‘woken’. “I’ve gotta makes that call, for starters. And so do you. Too many folks out here don’t care about doing what’s right. That’s why we have to.”  
  
Justice is a far-flung thing, divorced from the orderly courthouse she once served in. “Is more violence the answer? Or are there other ways someone can make up for what they’ve done?”  
  
That earns her a pointed yellow stare. “If this is about the Institute, I know you did everything you could. The people of the Commonwealth don’t have to fear what’s lurking in the shadows because you had the guts to press the button.”  
  
She presses her forehead into her knees as something in her chest cracks. The Institute.  
  
Shaun.  
  
So many bodies.  
  
“Nick? You said people were worried about me.” At his hum of agreement, Kaelyn doesn’t ask who. Instead, she wonders, “Why didn’t you follow me?” Her only surprise is that it took Deacon so long to find her.  
  
Valentine nods thoughtfully, his eyes stuck on the horizon like golden pins. “I’ll be honest with you. Another week and I woulda gone looking. I know you needed time and space to process it all—still do, frankly—but I was worried for ya.”  
  
She nods, keeping her gaze on her knees.  
  
“Never got the chance to tell you I’m sorry about your boy.”  
  
It’s several moments before she can speak around the lump in her throat. “Let’s go.”  
  
It doesn’t matter that it is arguably still night. Judging by her pip-boy’s map, they can follow the road straight out of Salem to the northern beach where the Nakanos live, trekking through sandy loam. The deep not-quite morning is gunmetal gray, and it’s impossible to tell whether the skies are clear or filled by clouds smoothed to the consistency of milk. It’s cold either way, with the incessant coastal breeze skipping inland to sting her lips and eyelashes with salty kisses.  
  
  
  
Two centuries of encroaching ocean have eroded the coastline to a mess of wind stricken grasses clinging to hills of damp sand. Bleached tree bones, warn smooth by salt, jut out of the ground like claws, and there’s even a rusted car sunk bumper-deep into the mud flats. With every step Kaelyn’s boots break the salty crust of the earth and sink an inch, leaving a clear trail from the road.  
  
Dawn is a quiet affair until the sun peeks above the ocean, rimming the horizon with a fierce, burning gold that lightens the eastern sky to cream. They follow the beach, hugging the cliff face in places where the tides suck at their heels, passing jetties that wait like broken limbs splayed in welcome for boats that will never arrive. The freeway overpass, hunched low over the rocky hills, strikes north through the border of the Commonwealth.  
  
They sight the Nakano residence, or what Valentine thinks is the Nakano residence: a lonely two-story house of algae-stained wood and red paint that perches a little too close to a cove. Kaelyn has a sneaking suspicion that whoever built the house did not plan on this kind of beach side view.  
  
A man’s voice carries through the window, laden with the desperate fear Kaelyn knows too well. “I know you’re listening! Where is my daughter, damn you?”  
  
Kaelyn and Valentine trade a look.  
  
Valentine takes the lead, giving a quick knock on the front door before entering. The Nakanos stand around a dining table, glancing up at their visitors, and surprise gives way to relief at the sight of their detective, who says, “I hope you don’t mind. We let ourselves in.”  
  
Kenji Nakano, a man teetering between middle age and his twilight years, straightens at once. There’s a frantic gleam in his eye. “Nick! There you are! You have to get to work right away! She could be hurt or lost or—”  
  
Valentine doesn’t share his panic. As steady as ever, he says, “Woah, slow down there. Tell me and my partner here what happened.”  
  
Kenji waves a hand at an orange radio on the table, his lip curling with disgust. “It’s because of this old thing!”  
  
Valentine looks between him and his wife, Rei Nakano. “all right, lay it all on the table. Give us everything you know.”  
  
Under Valentine’s careful probing, Kenji and Rei give all the details they can: eight days ago, they awoke in the early hours of the morning to the sound of a boat’s motor. By the time Kenji reached the docks and prepped another boat, their teenage daughter Kasumi was gone with no trail to follow. For the past few months, she had been repairing the radio that now sits on the dining table, stubbornly silent.  
  
Valentine nods. “If you don’t mind, we’ll take a look around, see if there’s any clues to where she went. You sit tight while we get to the bottom of this.” Back in the tight foyer, Valentine says to Kaelyn, “If you’ll search her room, I’ll see if there’s anything more Kenji and Rei can tell us. But don’t disturb anything you don’t have to. I don’t think I need to tell you to stay out of any underwear drawers.”  
  
Not a ghost of a smile at his joke. “On it.”  
  
Leaving Valentine to his work, Kaelyn takes the stairs. The Nakano residence must have once been a manse belonging to someone of affluence; the vine-patterned wallpaper, while discolored and bubbled from the salt, has hardly peeled in the intervening years.  
  
Kasumi’s room is through the last door on the right, greeting Kaelyn with paintings of cats, pre-war posters, and all manner of mechanical gizmos. There’s a pegboard for storing tools beside a large workbench lovingly cluttered with half-completed projects. An open crate at the foot of her bed is filled with scavenged appliances in various states of disrepair. At the top of her dresser sits a Nuka-Cola bottle with a tiny angel inside, painstakingly assembled from tiny screws and wires and cogs.  
  
“Talented kid.” As Kaelyn peers down for a closer look, she notices the nearby globe is poised at the east coast of the United States, with a red pin marking the approximation of the Nakano residence and a half-dozen pins in other colors dotted nearby.  
  
Locations Kasumi hopes to visit? Only, with a closer inspection, Kaelyn notices some of the pins are in the ocean. Perhaps they mark good fishing spots—as a fisherman’s daughter, she would know such things.  
  
Kaelyn marks the coordinates in her pip-boy all the same. On the workbench is a holotape labeled _Project Log: Radio_. Kaelyn listens, trying to memorize the bubbly voice as best she can.  
  
_“Project log: radio. When I get this thing working—fingers crossed!—I’m finally going to get some news outside the house! I’ll need a handle. How about… Ohm’s Law? That should confuse the creeps, any anyone who actually gets the reference, then we’ll have circuitry in common.”_  
  
Clever. In the tradition of families everywhere, Kasumi is evidently more savvy than her parents, or at least her father, give her credit for. The holotape chronicles her efforts to repair the radio that Kaelyn skims, culminating in a burst of white noise, a soft tune from Diamond City Radio, and a cheer.  
  
Valentine seeks her out when she descends the stairs. “You find anything useful?”  
  
“I found a holotape that recorded her repairing the radio. From her comments, I’d say she was aware that someone might prey on her and took steps to minimize the risk. That and a globe marked with locations around the Commonwealth and beyond. I can’t make sense of them, but I wrote the co-ordinates down.”  
  
“Good work. At this point, we can’t rule anything out. Our young Miss Kasumi is quite the mechanic, by the sounds of it. She’s the one who repairs the boats, amongst other things. Her parents don’t agree on why Kasumi’s gone. Kenji’s convinced she was nabbed, while Rei thinks she took off on her own and doesn’t want to be found. That sure wouldn’t be unheard of, ’specially with young folk. Rei mentioned a grandfather who passed away recently, and that Kasumi worked in his boathouse for hours. Let’s take a peek at what she was up to, shall we?”  
  
The boathouse is a mechanic’s haven: a labyrinth of shelves and workbenches and filing cabinets. Someone went to great lengths to patch holes in the walls and waterproof the ceiling with tarp and duct tape. Several consoles press against the walls—nautical equipment, possibly—to make space for the boat someone has been grafting navigational devices onto.  
  
Valentine’s initial assessment, out of earshot of the Nakanos, is, “On a case like this, with no clear sign of kidnappers, we need to look for clues on why Kasumi might have left on her own. Either someone encouraged her, or she packed up and high tailed it herself. If she wasn’t certain her parents would have let her leave, it could explain why she sneaked out. But don’t let yourself become boxed into one line of thinking. Got all that?”  
  
“Find a motive for her leaving; don’t make assumptions.”  
  
He smiles. “We’ll make a proper detective out of you yet, partner.”  
  
Maybe it’s the angled shaft of sunlight she stands in, but for a moment she almost feels warm.  
  
They search the boathouse from one end to the other, but there’s nothing amiss among the boxes of scavenged scrap, sorted on the shelves in an arrangement that only makes sense to whoever organized them. A small picture frame with a painting of a lighthouse sits on the desk.  
  
Valentine grunts and looks closer. “See that? Frame’s clean while the desk is dusty. Someone picked it up recently.” But his cursory inspection reveals nothing, so they continue their search—and notice a safe sitting below the stranded boat.  
  
Kaelyn looks to Valentine. “Should we...?”  
  
After a moment of thought he nods. “Don’t think it could hurt at this point.”  
  
A second search of the boathouse yields no key. Crouching down, Kaelyn withdraws her screwdriver and a bobby pin. With some finagling she has the satisfaction of hearing the lock click and she spins the dial.  
  
“Aptly done.”  
  
Again with that almost-warmth. But no time to ponder it as the thick door swings outward. The safe is empty but for two rolls of duct tape and a holotape.  
  
Kaelyn turns it over but there’s no label. Even though the weather can’t decide if it wants to be cloudy or sunny, a promise of fresh air lures them out to the jetty, where they lean side by side against the railing. Kaelyn slots the tape into her pip-boy.  
  
_“Project log: um... myself. I never really thought about who or what I am, but—”_ A tinny sigh, then: _“Where do I start? The radio. I managed to get a signal from up north. There’s a group of people up there. They say they’re all synths. Synthetic people. Made by the Institute.”_  
  
Kaelyn and Valentine look to each other. The same mix of surprise and skepticism coats their faces.  
  
“They’re trying to build a place for their kind. Where they can be themselves and be accepted for what they are. It sounds wonderful, but then they started asking about me. And some of those questions… I don’t have answers to. I mean, I’ve always felt off, like I don’t belong here, but I can’t remember parts of my childhood. And then there are the dreams...” Silence for a beat, then two. “I... I’m going to go. To meet these synths. To find answers. If I sail north to a town called Far Harbor, I can meet with them from there.”  
  
Valentine lets out one long breath. “Isn’t every day that we get a lead as neat as that. So the daughter takes off by boat to Far Harbor. And these synths broadcasting their location. That’s another thing you don’t see every day.”  
  
Kaelyn stares out at the water. A colony of synths and a girl who thinks she’s one of them. “Could she be an Institute replacement?”  
  
“Anything’s possible, especially where the Institute’s concerned. Don’t need to tell you that.”  
  
And yet something about that explanation doesn’t click—all the replacements Kaelyn has seen were self-aware infiltrators. “Maybe she’s a synth the Railroad processed and they took her in as their daughter. If you knew Kenji from that case you worked with him, do you remember anything about a child? Or was it before she was born?”  
  
Valentine is quiet as he thinks, but she can’t help but notice the cigarette pinched so tightly between his steel fingers it has bent in half. “The old memory banks are a bit foggy today, gotta admit. Can barely remember the case with Kenji, let alone his family.” Another pensive silence. While he isn’t always chatty, Kaelyn senses something amiss this time. She waits him out until he continues, “I don’t suppose our lantern-lighting friends wouldn’t keep those kinds of records lying around.”  
  
She snuggles further into her jacket, fisting her hands in her pockets as a fresh gale tears at her hair. “The Institute’s— well, I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore if she is or she isn’t a synth.”  
  
Valentine eyes her sidelong. “Not to you, perhaps.”  
  
She has to concede to that.  
  
Valentine grabs his fedora as another blast of wind attempts to lift it off his head. “We need to get to this Far Harbor. Kenji knows these waters better than anyone. Hope you don’t get seasick, partner.”  
  
When Valentine relays their gathered information to the Nakanos, they are adamant Kasumi is human.  
  
“What?” Rei gasps. “We raised her! I— I gave birth to her! She’s flesh and blood, not a synth!”  
  
“That’s— that’s crazy!” Kenji snaps. “Not only does someone lure my daughter away, but they convince her she isn’t even human?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “It doesn’t matter if Kasumi is a synth. She’s still someone who needs help.”  
  
Her words have less than desired effect, as Kenji and Rei bequeath her with incredulous looks, so Valentine steps in. “This Far Harbor is to the north, you say? It’ll be a long trip. We’ll need to gather some supplies, then if you could take us there, Kenji, we’ll do the rest.”  
  
When they stand on the front steps, Kaelyn lets out a breath. Not quite a sigh. “Do you think they’re taken aback because they believe she’s human or nervous because they sheltered a synth?”  
  
“This place is awful isolated,” Valentine says. “Perfect spot for a family to stay off the grid. Hard to say either way, and I can’t blame ’em if they are protecting her.” Halfway up the sandy drive, he asks, “Are you up for it, partner? If you need to sit this one out, go home and clear your head, I’ll understand.”  
  
She whispers, “I need to get out of here, Nick.”  
  
He looks her over. Whatever he sees, he’s not sure if he likes it. But still he nods. “Well all right then. I’ll be glad for the company. We’ll grab the gear we’ll need and be off.”  
  
The correct version is that _she’ll_ need supplies. There are advantages to not requiring food, water or radaway.  
  
Hurried by Kenji’s urging and Rei’s worried stare, it only takes them two days to collect everything they need and return to the Nakano jetty. Kaelyn leaves Dogmeat in Codsworth and Preston’s care, no matter what puppy eyes he throws at her. By the time they return to the northern beach, Kenji has prepared one of his boats for them.  
  
He spends the morning showing them the basics of navigation. “Even with my father’s guidance system, I would feel remiss not to show you how to steer the boat,” he says.  
  
When Kenji deems them adequate sailors, the sun is almost at its zenith. Sweat and salt string Kaelyn’s hair into fine clumps; both she and Valentine have put their hats away lest the wind steal them to gorge the ocean on more pollution. Their supplies—four bags worth of all the food, medicines and ammo they could fit without bursting the seams—go in the boat.  
  
The Nakanos wave them off on the docks.  
  
“Good luck,” Rei says. “When you find Kasumi, tell her we love her. She’s clever enough to make it on her own.”  
  
“My daughter is in danger. I can feel it. Please hurry.” Kenji says.  
  
“We’ll find her,” Kaelyn says, “I swear.”  
  
She would be lying if she promised to bring Kasumi home, however. Holding onto hope only to have them dashed on the rocks of cruel reality? It isn’t something she can ever wish on another parent.  
  
When the motor rumbles and the boat steers away from the jetty to open seas, Kaelyn closes her eyes. She wants to leave her pain stranded on the mud-swirled shores of her broken home. It should hurt more, she thinks, to run, but there is nothing to feel anymore, every last drop wrung out as if a thirsty wretch squeezed out a wet cloth. She only remembers the fear. Sometimes gnawing, sometimes cutting, always overwhelming.  
  
She flees the craters—and the ghosts that linger.  
  
One ghost in particular.  
  
As the boat veers north, Valentine leans on the railing beside her, eyes on the horizon. He hums low in his throat, the burr pushing the limits of his vocalizer. “The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, the furrow followed free. We were the first that ever burst into that silent sea.”  
  
It takes Kaelyn several long moments to place the reference, cycling through high school memories that have since become obsolete. Then she snorts. “You don’t think that’s a bad omen?”  
  
“If you spot an albatross, don’t shoot it. That’s the moral of the story, right?”  
  
Kaelyn snorts again.  
  
The difference between her and Kellogg is that he never had a Valentine to coax him back from the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry Nick quotes is The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
> 
> The art can also be found [over here](http://eluvisen.tumblr.com/post/149908402651/first-illustration-for-what-makes-a-memory-a-nick) on Tumblr.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: [Ghost Town by Adam Lambert](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=toDqvHvTN7c).

Their first introduction to Far Harbor involves a fight, of course.  
  
Someone cries the alarm and Captain Avery abandons her welcome speech to race up the nearest stairs. “You two! Help us defend the town and I’ll answer any questions you have!”  
  
With a shared look between Kaelyn and Valentine, they follow her and the disgruntled Allen to the commotion. A makeshift battlement looks down on three sides over a courtyard of sorts, while a row of blue lampposts demarcates the entrance to the harbor from the street. Thick pearly fog slinks along the ground, softly evanescent with blue-violet light from the lamps.  
  
With her laser musket primed and ready, Kaelyn shifts her weight. The uneven planks beneath her feet groan in a way that is not reassuring. At least a dozen people stand in uneven increments along the wall, peering into the gloom. Waiting.  
  
“Are you sure you saw something?” a man calls. Rather than piercing the night, his voice seems to be swallowed by the fog that prowls beyond the perimeter, rebounding through the salt-laden air.  
  
“Eyes peeled!” a beanie-clad woman barks, her white face stark in the gloom. “This is not a drill!”  
  
The fog rolls. The lights crackle and hum. Peering into the gloom, Kaelyn strains to make out the silhouettes of houses across the street. No movement.  
  
“Wait for it,” Valentine rumbles. His sturdy pistol is pointed towards the courtyard.  
  
Shouts—and Kaelyn almost fires before she realizes the figures materializing out of the fog are friendlies. The beanie-clad woman at the forefront of the wall—the Mariner—keeps the gates shut. The hunters press their backs to the wall that is in fact a re-purposed boat hull, Kaelyn notices.  
  
Lumpy silhouettes leap out of the fog.  
  
Under the night’s colorless shroud, visibility is poor. Figures and faces and names Kaelyn doesn’t know, calling out to one another and grouping in patterns she can’t predict. She picks her shots with care, firing at the lumbering forms, trying to make sense of their shapes.  
  
“Watch out for the folks on the ground!” Valentine calls.  
  
Fire bursts among a cluster of those foreign shapes, sending them scattering, and then a second molotov cocktail hits one square on the back. Among the whoops and animal screams, Kaelyn lines up her next shot and fires. Cranking the handle, she sees blue ripple off an oily hide—that then flares red and disintegrates under her next shot.  
  
She sweeps the area once, twice. Nothing twitches.  
  
Acrid smoke mingles with clammy fog, along with the smell of cooked flesh. Kaelyn peers down to the street, but the gates have opened and she can’t distinguish the bodies on the ground. A few people are already dragging the large animal carcasses inside.  
  
With the threat taken care of, the grizzled Captain Avery divulges some local knowledge. Far Harbor is a mule-stubborn settlement that has the gall to call itself a town. Tensions are running high with the Children of Atom, who have a commune on the island.  
  
Allen, the same bearded man who attempted to intimidate them on the dock, butts in. “I’m done cowering behind your damn wall, Avery. It’s time I dealt with the problem.”  
  
Avery doesn’t miss the way Allen hefts his assault rifle, tendons stark under his white skin. “The Children didn’t make the Fog, Allen.”  
  
“Before those rad eaters came, the Fog was under control. Now look at it! It covers the whole damn island. It’s more lethal than ever!”  
  
Kaelyn recalls Kenji’s words on Far Harbor: _I’ve only been there once, as a boy. My father did not want to stay long. Something about the air being bad._  
  
That turns out to be a little more literal than Kaelyn expects. The island is blanketed in the Fog, with a capital F: thick, clammy and radioactive. The strange blue lanterns standing sentinel at the edges of the town are Fog condensers, and they are the only thing that permits the settlers to stubbornly cling to their pier.  
  
There’s some good news, at least from Avery. “Yes, this Kasumi you’re looking for recently arrived and made her way inland. To the synth refuge, Acadia.”  
  
At last, a name for the place. Kaelyn’s surprised to hear it dropped so casually, without so much as a blink let alone an opinion on synths. She shivers in the clammy coastal night, pulling her jacket more tightly around her middle. Her nose has long since gone numb, and a thin trail of fluid leaks from one nostril despite her best efforts at sniffling.  
  
“Thanks for your time, Captain,” Valentine says, touching the brim of his fedora. Despite the fact he hasn’t looked in Kaelyn’s direction, she wonders if he noticed her discomfort when he then asks, “One last question. Where might we get a meal and a bed?”  
  
Their second introduction to Far Harbor involves the bar, of course.  
  
Upon heaving open the salt-stained door to The Last Plank, they are welcomed by the universal atmosphere of low-quality dives: desperation and vomit clouded in a balm of alcohol. A working jukebox leans against the wall, its neon lights out of place among the oil-fueled lanterns that hang from the rafters and cast warm yellow light around the room. Brine and sweat and smoke have sunk deep into the wooden pores of the room.  
  
Kaelyn sniffles, glad for the stuffy warmth to sting her nose. There’s a crusted stain by her left boot. Half the tables are already occupied by gaunt and wary Harborfolk who eye the strangers and mutter ‘mainlanders’ as Kaelyn and Valentine pass.  
  
The bartender, a roaring drunkard by the name of Mitch, offers Kaelyn and Valentine a free beer apiece and laughs at Kaelyn’s ‘mainland niceties’ when she thanks him. After she’s ordered dinner and arranged for a room, they pick one of the unclaimed booths. The cracking vinyl groans and the padding deflates when she leans into the backrest. One of her boots remains solidly planted on the floor through the strap of her satchel. Valentine slides into the seat opposite.  
  
Kaelyn rests her hands on the table, then thinks better of it when she feels something sticky. “Have you ever heard of this synth colony?”  
  
“Not a peep. I take it your friends don’t know, either?”  
  
“If they do, I sure never got wind of it.” Perhaps it would have been wise to check in with the Railroad, given the nature of the case, but she can’t face them. “I’m surprised the Institute never tracked them down if they’re happy to talk to anyone over the radio about it.”  
  
The waitress arrives with a bowl of over-salted mirelurk stew and a keyring that sports a crude carving of a fish.  
  
“This Acadia...” Valentine says, rolling the word around his mouth. “Folks here don’t seem much bothered by the idea of a synth colony somewhere on the island.”  
  
It seems when people don’t really know what synths are, they don’t really care. So Desdemona is right about that after all.  
  
“Either they have bigger problems, or they aren’t troubled by Acadia. Without the baggage of the Institute...” She closes her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her throat tightens.  
  
 _Forgive me, Shaun..._  
  
As the bartender calls for a round on the house, a man at a nearby table whoops and leans dangerously far back in his seat.  
  
Her heart stops.  
  
Firelight burnishes the man’s brown hair with red, a few shades off Nate’s auburn. No matter the thick fuzz along his jaw or his sunken features, she’s transfixed by the sight of him, unable to breathe. His hair is even tossed into a loose bun at his nape like Nate preferred.  
  
Her chair scrapes on the floorboards. “Excuse me.”  
  
It’s too hot, the air is too thick, and she has to _move_. Kaelyn has to push through the throng of people, several of whom shove back out of spite. Taking the narrow stairs two at a time, she seeks the door with the green fish next to the doorknob. The room is cramped, but she only cares that she can drag a chair in front of the door and flop down onto the bed. It’s already damp, so Kaelyn presses her face into the mattress and drags the pillow over her head, letting guilt bite her with rusted fangs.  
  
 _I’m sorry, Nate. I’m sorry, Shaun._  
  
Heart hot and aching, she cries for the first time since pushing the button.

—

When Kaelyn had been nine years old, her family went on vacation to Bar Harbor. Years of careful saving by her parents paid off in four days of adventure. In the following years, inflation ate away at her parents’ hard-earned savings and talk of another family vacation became little more than hollow words.  
  
Her memories of their vacation are disjointed at best, eroded by age: the ice cream cone she had to share with her younger brother, the taste of Vim! going up her nose, the rows of brightly colored shacks with their steep roofs pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, the feel of sunlight on her face when they stepped out of a souvenir shop.  
  
During the car trip to the national park, Kaelyn’s time had been divided between progressing her latest spat with Martin, whining _‘Amma,_ are we there yet?’, and pressing her nose to the car window. She remembers the lush landscape of Acadia National Park behind the glass. Sunbeams darted through the canopy to caress tree trunks shawled in moss, like noble ladies poised in their verdant finery.  
  
There’s only one problem: Bar Harbor doesn’t exist anymore.  
  
Somehow, somehow, the old pain at seeing the world so broken rouses an ache underneath her fresh grief.  
  
During the night, Valentine has done some detective work and enlisted the services of one Old Longfellow. Only a fool would equate his advanced age with weakness; there’s a canniness about him as he checks his lever-action rifle and switches off the safety. Under his great scraggly beard, his skin is a sun-kissed tan, scored and mottled as if the great beast called Time chewed him up but found him too tough to digest. Also, his face shows twenty years of hard drinking.  
  
Kaelyn’s eyes are also puffy and bloodshot, from a different sort of hangover.  
  
Longfellow’s first words to her: “Can’t blame ya for not wanting to be sober, but our liquor is stronger than what you’ll find on the mainland.”  
  
She finds she doesn’t mind his mistaken assumption. If anything it seems to have endeared her to him, as he leads them out the gates with only the bare minimum of grumbling about soft mainlanders.  
  
When they step past the condensers, the Fog swallows them whole.   
  
It’s a living thing, seething sluggishly, fading the dead street to a haze of blue-gray shapes. The tree line above the harbor is barely visible, little more than dark gray lines slashing down across the clouds. Somehow it even dulls the smells; the ever-present salt is reduced to the faintest sting and the corpses from last night hardly smell. The disembodied wash of the nearby shore creates a soothing ambiance that feels like a snare to attract unwary prey. The Fog slips under her collar, slinks down her spine, sinks into her hair to chill her scalp. Even freshly dosed up on rad-x, Kaelyn feels the heavy slither of radiation seeping into her skin from the moment they step into the Fog.  
  
After twenty steps, she can barely see the Hull behind them. As much as she feels exposed without her patrolman glasses, visibility is too poor for the added impediment.  
  
Longfellow’s voice is strangely muted, yet bounces around them. “If you want to survive out here, you go where I say. When I say.”  
  
Kaelyn, for one, is more than happy to let Longfellow take the lead, even if she has to remain close or risk losing him in the Fog. At least his black coat is distinctive enough. With a quick touch to Kaelyn’s shoulder, Valentine hangs back a step to cover the rear.  
  
“How well can you see, Nick?”  
  
A noise of irritation behind her. “Gray, gray, and more gray. Woulda been real nice if the Institute installed thermal sensors before giving me the boot. Still probably faring better than you, though.”  
  
As they turn down the street, the asphalt is not only cracked but slick with dew, forcing them to step with care. Decrepit townhouses clump to the left and beyond the once-scenic boardwalk to the right, the bay rolls. A pier stretches to a seafood shop with a placard that still brags about its quality lobster. This little tourist trap, with its colorful signs and weather-stained umbrellas, sits decaying, confused as to how the apocalypse happened.  
  
At least with the Fog, Kaelyn can keep her eyes on Longfellow’s back and try not to remember.  
  
Longfellow explains in his gravelly voice, “See. The Fog can do a number on you. Gets you all turned around. Does somethin’ to your brain. The trappers you find around the island? They were mean to begin with, but now...”  
  
With no means to measure time, the only indication of their progress is the townhouses thinning out to homey cabins and the trees thickening on the ridge. Longfellow turns at a junction to the national park entrance. They duck around the boom gate that declares the road closed and drift into the forest proper.   
  
Longfellow crouches down to check a print in the mud. “Game trails crisscross the mountain, so don’t be surprised if we got local wildlife to deal with.”  
  
The road slithers through the gray-washed forest with its cracked-asphalt python hide. Tree trunks loom around them like phantom masts of ships, sailing on unseen waters. Drops of moisture bead on their bare branches, and then plink to the ground when they grow too heavy to bear. The stench of moss and wet earth pervades the air.  
  
Kaelyn makes the mistake of looking up. The mountain looms over them, silent and gray, but a few brave trees stretch as tall as they can in hopes of piercing the veil. Their branches entwine and scrape against each other in a thorny network. The Fog hazes the canopy overhead, shivering, distorting the world in mesmerizing ripples. Sunlight peeks between the branches, making the Fog an incandescent aqua-white; no shadows touch the ground.  
  
“Look out!”  
  
She jerks, sees the snarling bundle of fur leaping for her, and thinks _Dogmeat—_  
  
It spasms, arrested in midair by pops from a pistol. But its momentum carries it straight into Kaelyn. She’s knocked to the ground, getting a mouthful of wet fur and fetid breath. It jerks once, twice, and dies. More snarls ring through the gloom, along with gunfire. Pushing the wolf off her, Kaelyn rolls onto one knee and aims. Hits another wolf that falls with a yelp and burning fur.  
  
She cranks her musket; finds another target. She fires just as Longfellow’s rifle cracks, and the last wolf falls.  
  
Valentine checks her over, his eyes glowing eerily in the Fog. “You all right?”  
  
Longfellow bares his teeth in something too savage to classify as a smile. “You like those puppies? We grow ’em extra mean on the island. Remember what I said about the Fog? Doesn’t affect just humans.”  
  
Kaelyn shakes her head, but there’s no clearing it this deep in the Fog. Her chest feels heavy with more than the bruises from dead, tumor-ridden wolf. She waves Valentine off. “Let’s keep moving.”  
  
The deeper they go, the more sound softens and warps. Contrast washes out to a bland sameness that presses down on the interlopers with a near-tangible weight. Longfellow, at least, isn’t perturbed in the slightest as the three of them squelch up the track in their muddy boots. Curling her damp toes, Kaelyn realizes she should have packed more socks.   
  
If not for the way his voice bounces and reflects back in the Fog, his chatter would be comforting. “Folks got short memories. All this has happened before. When I was a young lad, no higher than your knee, whole island was covered in Fog. Eventually it rolled back. People resettled, but they got comfortable. Started takin’ things for granted.”  
  
Trying to picture it, Kaelyn can only see a tiny Longfellow with a beard.  
  
“You don’t think the Children of Atom are involved?” Valentine asks.  
  
Longfellow grunts deep in his throat. “The Fog follows no will but its own.”  
  
Not even the trees have been spared from radiation-induced mutation. Many of them now grow every which way, their gnarled branches looping like overgrown fingernails. Kaelyn tries her best to excise the green forest from her memory. Longfellow imparts more tidbits along the way, pointing out the preferred habitat of a number of strange creatures and puts a name to the animals that attacked Far Harbor last night. Gulpers.  
  
By the last leg of the journey, Kaelyn is simultaneously sweaty and cold, her lungs burning from the climb. Her head feels thick, making it hard to keep her eyes peeled for threats, and she clutches her musket so tightly her fingers ache. Neither Longfellow nor Valentine seem as affected; the former thanks to experience, the latter thanks to mechanics.  
  
But at last the road steepens and the sky gets lighter. And then there’s a hint of blue overhead, coaxing out a violet cast where Fog rolls against ground. Ahead the trees thin, then something curved and gray peeks between the trunks. A building—and the shape of it clicks in Kaelyn’s memory. The old observatory. Its perimeter is marked by chain-link fence and more of the Fog condensers.  
  
When they pass the condensers, Kaelyn can think again. Her eyes burn in the sudden light, the sky as deep a blue as she’s ever seen it.  
  
The observatory sits atop the mountain. The car park is muddy and, while there are rows of barricades set up to defend the building, none are occupied.  
  
“There it is,” Longfellow grunts. "Acadia. They’ve already been watching us for a good spell. Head on inside. You need my help again, come see me. I could think of worse things to do.”  
  
“We’re much obliged,” Valentine says. As Longfellow takes his leave, he looks up the stairs to the dome of the observatory. “A whole colony of synths, just sitting here in the open. No guards, but some means of observing potential visitors.”  
  
She says, “Time to find out if Kasumi made it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art can also be found [here](http://eluvisen.tumblr.com/post/150206935776/art-from-chapter-three-of-what-makes-a-memory).
> 
>  _Amma_ \- mother


	4. Chapter 4

The door is unlocked, admitting them with hardly a creak. In the sudden dimness, green and blue afterimages whorl across Kaelyn’s vision. She suspects Valentine doesn’t have the same problem since he moves ahead down the corridor without a moment of hesitation.  
  
The telescope room has been re-purposed to suit its new occupants, with bays of blue-screened terminals circling the room in a labyrinthine pattern. Above them, the high-powered telescope looms while the gap in the domed ceiling casts a rectangle of light onto the floor.  
  
At the top of the dais, a chair springs upright to release a gray figure. “When I first climbed this mountain, rising above the Fog, I thought to myself: now here’s a metaphor worth taking in.”  
  
The figure steps into a square of sunlight, lighting the bare planes of their chest, and Kaelyn starts. A second gen synth. Not only an older model, but heavily modified beyond any Institute-approved configuration: bulbs jut from the back of the synth’s skull and shoulders, and black duct tape covers sections where the artificial dermis has been stripped away.  
  
Kaelyn glances between the synth and Valentine, the latter of whom narrows his eyes. In all their travels, they’d never encountered another self-aware gen two.  
  
The synth looks from Kaelyn to Valentine, face going wooden with what could be shock. “Nick? It— it can’t be you...”  
  
Valentine’s expression slides from surprise to suspicion. “Don’t give me that. What are you trying to pull? I’ve never seen you before in my life. The only talking synth I know with a face that is the one I see in the mirror. Just who are you?”  
  
Kaelyn can only look between the two of them as the strange synth, DiMA, tells his tale. He and Valentine had been the only two prototype synths ever built, the former permitted to develop his personality organically while the latter was implanted with a complete pre-existing one.  
  
The synth’s voice softens, trembles, as he says, “I saw you wake up not knowing who you were so many times... I couldn’t let them do it to you anymore. You were my brother, Nick. I helped you escape the Institute. We left together.”  
  
Valentine is less than convinced. “If I were your brother, I’d remember!”  
  
While DiMA’s expressions lack the nuance of Valentine’s, sympathy radiates from his frame. “That’s where you’d be wrong. This happened over a century ago. There’s only so much raw data that our prototype brains can hold.”  
  
Kaelyn laces her hands over her stomach, schooling her face to conceal her shock at it all. She steps closer to Valentine, lightly bumping his arm with her elbow so he knows she has his back.   
  
_A hundred years? Not sixty?_  
  
“Now that sure is convenient. But let me ask you something: can synths even be related? Just because we’re from the same assembly line, does that make us family?”  
  
DiMA’s expression flickers, indecipherable. “Nick. I don’t need you to believe me. I’m just glad to see you again. Now, if you’ll indulge me with an answer, why did you come here if not to see me?”  
  
The change of topic allows Valentine to ease back into his detective self. “We were hired to search for one Miss Kasumi Nakano and had reason to believe she made her way here.”  
  
“Ah.” The word seems to carry more meaning than mere recognition. If DiMA is offended or hurt by Valentine’s brusque professionalism, he doesn’t show it. “Kasumi is here, safe.”  
  
“And your lot convinced her to make the journey here, is that right?”  
  
“The choice was hers. Kasumi accepted our invitation to live here, as her true self, of her own free will.”  
  
Kaelyn hangs back while Valentine questions the other synth, playing sidekick, occasionally murmuring something to Valentine for him to ask.  
  
Until DiMA’s eerily familiar eyes sweep her over. “Pardon me for not greeting you sooner. You’ve entered a place of clarity. Understanding. Acadia welcomes you, as long as you welcome us.”  
  
Kaelyn holds up her hands. “I’m just Nick’s partner. Not planning on causing any trouble for your people.”  
  
DiMA stares at her for a moment too long, tilting his head to the side. “If you’ll indulge me with an answer: are you a synth as well?”  
  
“No,” she says, a shade too sharp. “It’s not possible.”  
  
“Isn’t it?” DiMA’s expression could almost qualify as pitying. “A question, if I may. What is your earliest memory?”  
  
It’s old enough that all Kaelyn has are impressions and facts stitched together in an uneven tapestry: being told to hold Martin’s hand on his first day of kindergarten, the tantrum he threw at the front door, then being pushed down the stairs.  
  
Kaelyn’s mouth thins. “That’s none of your concern.”  
  
DiMA’s expression never twitches but for the half-shuttering of his eyes. “I can see you’re not ready to have this conversation.”  
  
There’s no conversation to be had. Her life before the Great War, every moment she’s survived since stumbling out of Vault 111, infiltrating the Institute for the Railroad—it simply isn’t possible. “If I’m a synth, then the last few months have been nothing but a sick joke.”  
  
Valentine touches her elbow, his light touch doing more to ease the tension in her spine than words ever could.  
  
DiMA’s features soften. “Synth or human, Acadia will accept you for what you are. Now, about Kasumi...”

—

They find Kasumi in the power room, attempting to repair one of the generators. Even from a glance, the family resemblance is strong. Kasumi’s straight black hair is neatly trimmed below her ears, contrasting with her soft fawn skin. She inherited Rei’s eyes and nose, while there’s a touch of Kenji in the quirk of her brow. Her well-loved coveralls are stained with grease, particularly on the legs.  
  
Valentine clears his throat. “Miss Kasumi?”  
  
She barely glances up from her work. “Yes? Sorry, this is being a real pain in the— ack!” The gear she’d been trying to fit pops free of its bearing.  
  
Valentine crouches down beside her to grab the gear. “Need a hand? Those pre-war actuators can be real prickly.”  
  
Kasumi looks up and double takes. “Sorry. You’re... not DiMA.”  
  
“You’ve got that right. Name’s Nick Valentine. I’m a detective. Your folks asked me and my partner here to find you. You left ‘em without even a note to explain.”  
  
Her hands still. “Look, my mom and dad— I mean, the people who took care of me. They wouldn’t want me back. Not if they knew the truth. You have to know how people react to synths, right, since you’re—you know?”  
  
“You bet,” Valentine agrees. “But not everyone takes it badly. Your folks are real worried about ya.”  
  
Kasumi sighs. “I thought it would be easier if I just left. How could I tell tell them ‘Mom, Dad, I’ve been lying to you this whole time? Your real daughter is dead and I replaced her’?”  
  
Kaelyn crouches down on Kasumi’s other side so her voice won’t carry. “You were isolated at your parents’ house, so the Institute wouldn’t have planted you there as a spy. If you are a synth replacement? If the original Kasumi was also mechanically gifted, the Institute might have kidnapped her for her ability. In that case, they wouldn’t have killed her unless as a last resort.” Kaelyn wracks her brain, trying to remember any Institute personnel who shared look or name with the girl in front of her. “The only other option is if your family took you in after the Railroad smuggled you to safety.”  
  
Again, Kaelyn wishes Valentine’s memories if Kenji are clearer, if he can recall a daughter. If she had even been born at the time of the case.  
  
Kasumi’s no fool. Her eyes narrow and she looks between Kaelyn and Valentine. “How do you know all this?”  
  
Kaelyn looks around the room. There are no corners in the circular architecture, but it’s poorly lit save for the lanterns Kasumi has strategically placed. It buys her a few seconds to decide how much to divulge. “Have you heard of the Railroad? We help synths escape the Institute. That’s how I know. But please don’t spread that around. I’m still deciding how much I trust DiMA.”  
  
Interestingly, it’s the latter part of her answer that connects with Kasumi. “You aren’t the only one. I mean, I believe I’m a synth, but… there’s something wrong. With Acadia. I’m not running this time. I came here for answers, and I’m going to get them. You saw all those computer’s DiMA’s hooked up to, right? They hold his memories or offload data from his brain. So when I was doing some repairs, I got curious…”

—

Kaelyn shivers in the shaded front of the observatory. Letting out a heavy exhale, she wraps her jacket more firmly around herself, picking at a loose thread on the hem. Her thoughts churn with all they’ve learned.  
  
Valentine tilts his head back to watch a lonely cloud strafe across the sky. “So, DiMA’s got his fingers everywhere on this island. We’ve gone straight from one case to a another. It’s never easy for us, is it?”  
  
Jerking her chin for Valentine to follow, Kaelyn makes her way through a gap in the chain-link fence and finds a spot on a flat outcrop with an unimpeded view of the island below. Thanks to the Fog, it’s decidedly unimpressive. Valentine’s gaze is distant, anyway, so it’s unlikely he’s noticed.  
  
“Nick? Are you all right?”  
  
“I’ll keep. Don’t worry.” But his voice is more glum than she’s ever heard it. “Just need to figure all this out. You know, I always wondered if the Institute made other prototypes. What happened to them, if they existed. If they were thrown in the trash like I was or scrapped for parts. But I never figured that someone wanted to bust me out. Or that they’d be some kind of—family.” Valentine turns to her then and his uncertainty breaks her heart. “Do you think he really could be my brother?”  
  
Kaelyn fiddles with the zipper on her jacket. “I don’t know, Nick. The family resemblance is rather strong, but there’s more to family than blood. I always that figured once the Institute was done toying with you, that’s when they came for— for Shaun.” His name burns her throat. She looks away, to the forest below, to hide the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Over a hundred years, Nick?”  
  
He grunts, but there’s an edge to it. “I don’t know if I buy DiMA’s story about only having so much storage space in the old memory drive.”  
  
They’d learned the purpose of the terminal suite in the observatory’s main hall. Augmented by rows upon rows of blue-screened monitors, DiMA can transcend the limits of his original hardware and offload unwanted data, neatly sealed and preserved like walls of honeycomb.  
  
If Kaelyn’s being honest, she’s jealous. To have the option to remove the memories you don’t want—not lose them completely, but store them away in a box where they can’t rattle and whisper...  
  
“If it’s true and you can only retain so many memories, then at least you’ll forget me eventually.” If anything, it’s a comfort to know she doesn’t have to worry about leaving Valentine behind to remember her until he stops functioning.  
  
At first he’s confused. Then suspicion, a familiar sight on a detective’s face, creases the well-worn lines on his artificial dermis. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”  
  
Kaelyn stops, pivots away on her heel so he can’t see her face. “I’m going to die one day, Valentine. Most likely sooner rather than later. But you won’t be haunted by me forever. You can forget me and move on.”  
  
“Now hold on just a minute.” Valentine’s steel hand closes around her arm, spinning her to face him, and he plants both hands on her shoulders. His fingers dig into her skin as he pins her under a furious yellow gaze. _“I’ll_ be the judge of what’s worth remembering. Losing you— losing my memories of you  would be...”  
  
Underneath his anger is shock. The tight lines around his eyes deepen, not quite in the same arrangement as crow’s feet but expressive all the same. Kaelyn’s gaze is drawn to his lips, pressed into an uneven line that slants down at the corners.  
  
She whispers, “Would be what?”  
  
He clears his throat. “Look, doll. I know you’re in a rough spot right now, but don’t go writing yourself off like that.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I mean it.” He tightens his grip before releasing her, then adjusts his fedora so the brim shades his face. “Still, this is all a little premature. There has to be some kind of proof out there about any connection between me and DiMA. ‘S not much to go on, I’ll admit. Our best bet would be to keep looking into DiMA and Acadia.”  
  
In hindsight, a detective wanting hard evidence shouldn’t come as a surprise.  
  
Kaelyn touches his arm. “We’ve done more with less. We’ll find the answers.”  
  
For the first time since they walked into Acadia, the tension eases from Valentine’s features. “Appreciate it, partner.”  
  
The Fog writhes in the valley below, frayed by the sun before it can climb to their rocky perch atop the mountain. Without the Fog condensers, even this little haven wouldn’t exist. If not for DiMA, humans would have already been pushed off the island.  
  
Valentine watches her hands. “You haven’t stopped fidgeting since we talked to DiMA. What’s eating at you?”  
  
Kaelyn exhales in a long rattling stream. She shoves her hands in her pockets, the casual gesture belying the tension that stiffens her spine. “Does DiMA go around convincing everyone that they’re synths? I was in a vault until just a few months ago. I’m human.”  
  
She has to be, or else every argument with Shaun over the distinction between synths and Nuka-Cola machines is even more twisted in retrospect.   
  
“I’d wager they don’t get many human visitors,” Valentine says. “Don’t sweat it. There’d be nothing wrong if you are a synth, besides. We could keep going until Judgment Day. Although I suppose that may have already passed us.”  
  
Kaelyn makes an irritated noise. “Don’t you start. I remember being released from cryo. The Institute knew I was human and they’re the ones that should be able to tell, right? My earliest memory is of my brother pushing me down the stairs at kindergarten.”  
  
Valentine is quiet for a beat. Then: “You never mentioned you had a brother.”  
  
“It’s not like it matters anymore. He’s dead.” She doesn’t want to know how—in the bombs, or in the fallout.  
  
“Now just hold on a minute. Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean he never mattered, or that what you feel doesn’t matter.”  
  
She swallows around the lump in her throat. “Let’s just go. Need to get back to the harbor before sundown.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the amount of dialogue taken from the game, but I really wanted to write Nick into Vault 118's wacky murder mystery since he is, you know, a detective. Plus we sorely need some sillier content right about now.

In The Last Plank, rising for breakfast at 1:38pm isn’t unusual. Debbie’s still serving porridge, and directs all emerging patrons to the glasses of water clustered on the bar. It isn’t because Kaelyn slept in, but because it takes hours to scrape up the willpower to rise. Nightmares live in her her sleep, stalking her not with black eyes and hot atomic breath, but with half-remembered whispers. A shadow of a smile. Bright lights and a baby’s giggle. Upon waking, the possibility melts away like a castle of sand in a coastal gale, stinging her fingers as it crumbles.  
  
Valentine welcomes Kaelyn to his table in the common room and she drops into the seat beside him without ceremony. As comfortable as his shoulder is, and as generous as he is to lend her use of it as a pillow, she’s on the verge of going back to bed when a Miss Nanny floats into The Last Plank and makes a beeline towards them.  
  
“Pardon me, but are you the detectives I’ve heard about?”  
  
“That’s us,” Valentine says. “Sounds like we may have another case on our hands. What seems to be the problem?”  
  
“I haven’t been able to find any of the local police force, the louts!” It’s always a coin toss whether pre-war robots recognize the Great War took place, and this one is a firm no. The Miss Nanny’s voice drops as she continues, “While I don’t want to start a panic, we may have a murder on ours hands and require an investigator.”  
  
By this point the few occupants of the common room are either staring in curiosity or glaring at the noise, but Valentine ignores the onlookers. “Where did the murder take place and who was the victim?”  
  
“It was at the Cliff’s Edge Hotel, north of town. We want to keep it out of the tabloids, but it’s Ezra Parker, the financier of the hotel. You must help us—every moment we tarry puts our other residents at risk!”  
  
“I need to consult with my partner a moment, then we’ll meet you at the gates.” When the robot has taken her leave, Valentine chuckles once. “Maybe we should set up a second agency out here? Sure seems like folks need a detective or two.”  
  
Holding back a sigh, Kaelyn presses her fingers against her temples and tries to think. Even the simplest of tasks have become more difficult with the cold-stone grief hanging around her neck. “Who are these residents she spoke of? Do you think the murder happened before the war and she’s still following her programming? The people staying at the hotel can’t possibly still be alive.”  
  
“Only one way to find out.” When Valentine looks her over, his gaze is too knowing. “Up for the job today, partner?”  
  
She wants to say no. Go back to bed. “Sure. You need backup out there. I’ll grab my gear.”  
  
Moping has never helped and never will. Ten minutes later, she’s geared up and ready to go. Before they step outside, Valentine touches her arm. “All drugged up?”  
  
Kaelyn pops a couple of rad-x and breaks the seal on a water canister to wash down the foul-tasting capsules. The Miss Nanny, who answers to the name Pearl, leads them along the road that winds around the grand hotel. Kaelyn’s the only one huffing, cold air clawing her throat, but the Fog dampens the sound. Pearl floats ahead, the flame of her jet propulsion more visible than her milk-white casing. No matter how Kaelyn tells herself not to stare into the Fog, not let herself be trapped by its mesmerizing tendrils, she has to shake herself more times than she’d care to admit. It’s too easy to get caught in the gray and stop thinking.  
  
Kaelyn murmurs, “Do you think there’s something about the Fog, maybe its radioactivity, that affects people’s minds? Or is it psychological—only you and a world of white...”  
  
Valentine says, “Sure is lonely out here. A man could go mad with nothing to distinguish any which way.”  
  
She doesn’t tell him that she likes the forgetting.  
  
The Cliff’s Edge Hotel is still a magnificent sight to behold. With its swirling circular architecture, it manages to reek of affluence while betraying its arrogance. No doubt it had been designed by an architect with an eye for sleek contemporary trends and no understanding of Maine’s rustic charm. While the hotel was intended to be a monarch poised on a mountainous throne, it’s now a wasted elder who hunkers in its place, pretending to be relevant.  
  
They step up to the grand entrance that is littered with disturbingly familiar construction gear. Kaelyn’s stomach drops.  
  
A vault elevator sits in the center of the car park.  
  
“Well, well. This place just got a lot more interesting.” While Valentine’s voice is casual, he rests one hand at the small of her back. No matter the layers of leather, ballistic weave and fabric separating them, his touch burns.  
  
Bolstered by his presence, Kaelyn prowls as close to it as she dares. The platform has jammed on its bearings, cutting off access to the vault below. Her gaze travels between the elevator and the hotel. Already her nerves tighten, warning her away from the frigid cavern and its lying promises of shelter. “I have a bad feeling about this.”  
  
Pearl waits for them by the foyer. “I must warn you, some of the guests are a bit, hm, rowdy. I was forced to defend myself when one was a bit _handy,_ shall we say. The registered patrons are in an exclusive area of the hotel and do not associate with this rabble.”  
  
Kaelyn shares a look with Valentine before they check their weapons. “Ferals?”  
  
“Ferals.”  
  
Pearl leads them through the hotel, complaining about the absent cleaning staff, the detours they have to take, and the ‘grabby residents’—her term for the feral ghouls lurking in the hallways. In another time, it might have been amusing to hear the patrons capable of affording the Cliff’s Edge Hotel referred to as ‘rabble’. Even after two hundred years of neglect and radioactive fog, the decrepit finery is a far cry from the cramped little motel Kaelyn recalls from the Singh family vacation.  
  
After trekking through a number of detours that included the roof of the hotel, they discover working elevators. Pearl says, “This leads to the exclusive area of the hotel. You should feel quite privileged they will be allowing you in.”  
  
Keeping her face lawyer-smooth, Kaelyn asks, “Can we proceed to the crime scene?”  
  
The elevator spits them out at a wide hallway. The temperature down here is cold. Subterranean cold. At the end of the corridor, a set of double doors open to a man-made cave with a platform painted blue and yellow.  
  
She dabs at her running nose. Her feet are cold.  
  
Connecting Kaelyn’s pip-boy to the the control terminal doesn’t unseal the entrance, but the speaker squawks to life. For a moment she thinks it’s Codsworth, until it hits her he must be another Mr Handy. “Greetings! Welcome to Vault 118. Your home away from home, underground! Are you the detective we sent for? Oh, thank goodness. Let me just open the door for you.”  
  
The lights flash and the gear rolls away with a colossal creak. Dusty curtains of once-rich velvet flank the vault entrance while a chandelier throws gaunt light through the cavern. As Kaelyn steps onto the catwalk, she can only think, _What a waste._  
  
Indeed, Vault 118 is unlike any vault she has ever seen. If a little sanctuary under a hill was too good to be true, she now wonders what the price is for a place like this—for its oozing exorbitance is surely bait to lure in the elite of society as Vault-Tec’s subjects. The Mr Handy, Maxwell, greets them and leads them to an atrium; unlike the functional meeting room of other vaults, this one has a number of velvet-draped tables arranged to have a clear view of a stage and silver screen. There is not one speck of dust to be seen.  
  
Valentine shifts on his feet beside her. “Almost like the war never happened in here. Almost.”  
  
Just shy of the stage is a ring of protectrons guarding the crime scene. Kaelyn cranes her head to see the body and—  
  
Oh no.  
  
_Another_ robobrain, this one still alive, wheels out of the room with a sigh, and the protectron that escorted it to the exit returns to its position. At Maxwell’s command, the protectrons part to allow the detectives access to the crime scene. Ezra Parker, the victim, has a blue striped tie and no distinguishing features other than the broken head dome. Cause of death: trauma to the brain. The obvious weakness in these robots’ design. The carpet underneath his chassis is a halo of preservative fluids and blood. Dark spots lead away from the site, blending in with the Persian pattern.  
  
“Heads up.” Valentine crouches beside the nonfunctional robobrain. “I guess someone wasn’t a fan of robobrains. At least not this one.”  
  
If not for the watching robots, Kaelyn’s returning quip would have been: _And who_ is _a fan of robobrains?_ Glass shards grind under her boots as she follows the trail to one of the tables pushed against the wall. Lifting the burgundy tablecloth reveals a blue baseball bat, one end mottled with fluid and blood. “Huh.”  
  
Valentine strolls to her side. “Would ya look at that. Maxwell, does this belong to anybody?”  
  
“Oh my, that’s Mr McKinney’s! I can’t see him capable of such a thing! You’ll find him in the movie studio.”  
  
In the corridor, away from the atrium with its bright lights and Maxwell’s expectant gaze, the enormity of the situation dawns on Kaelyn. She’s in a vault full of robobrains, tasked with finding a murderer. Despite having run with Valentine before, she’s never been on a case like this, so far beyond her amateur ability. She stops, running her hands through her hair. “I don’t know where to begin, Nick.”  
  
Valentine’s face softens. “We’ve got the murder weapon, which makes for a good start. Now we question the residents, suss out who wasn’t a fan of old Ezra. We have the means—” he swings the bloody baseball bat “—so now we need motive and opportunity. Paying the movie star a visit is a good place to start.”  
  
The film studio is equipped with what must have been the latest in props and equipment. On the stage, two robobrains are arguing.  
  
“Why did you do that to him? He deserved better than that!”  
  
“You think I’m stupid? That I didn’t notice the way he looked at you?”  
  
Kaelyn raises an eyebrow, but Valentine shakes his head and jerks his chin to the active camera. He leans against the wall and they wait until the robobrains call it quits. That’s when Valentine steps in. “‘Scuse me? Keith, was it? I understand this is yours. Care to explain how it ended up as a murder weapon?”  
  
Upon brandishing the baseball bat, Keith McKinney says: “Someone is clearly trying to frame me for the murder. It’s probably Santiago. You saw him skulking around the crime scene, no doubt.”

That’s as much as they can glean from Keith, so rather than alienate him this early Valentine opts to gather statements, and a concierge directs them to the locations of the other residents. Kaelyn and Valentine walk the halls; the lavish wallpapers and decorations are beyond obscene. Underneath the veneer, however, lurks traces of Vault-Tec, enough to remind her at every turn of the honey trap she stands in. But for all the money sunk into these halls, no one thought to install a damn heater.  
  
Valentine mutters, “All these vaults run together for you too?”  
  
“No.” She remembers them all. The only commonality between them were the innocent people who became test subjects.  
  
The other residents, all drawn from the upper crust of society, are as snooty as they are eccentric. Every robobrain they question is suitably aghast at the murder and denies any involvement.  
  
  
Santiago, the one they saw being escorted away from the crime scene, is an artist with a single-minded devotion to his craft. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the long arm of the law. Tell me, are you a devotee of the arts? Does that cruel muse call you to her entrapping bosom?”  
  
“What?” Valentine’s face scrunches. “Maybe it’s predictable, but this long arm of the law wants to talk about the murder. We saw you loitering around the crime scene. Care to tell us about that?”  
  
Santiago tsks. It’s a mystery when he doesn’t have any teeth, but he does. “There will be plenty of time for that talk later. We have more pressing questions to be answered.”  
  
Kaelyn steps past Valentine, briefly touching his elbow as she passes. “Don’t mind my associate here. He has no appreciation for art.”  
  
Santiago lights up at once, his gears practically quivering. “Ah, I knew I saw a spark in you. All these years I have been trapped with these boors who have no understanding of the allure, the _power_ art holds over us.”  
  
As he wheels to one of the paintings on the wall, Valentine throws Kaelyn an unimpressed look. She shrugs and follows the robobrain. The walls, the floor, even the reactor core are covered in paint splashes. Stacks of used and new canvases piled as high as Kaelyn’s hip have been pushed against the walls to make walkways wide enough for a robobrain’s tread.  
  
Santiago says, “Tell me. What does this piece say to you?”  
  
Suddenly grateful for every impromptu debate she ever endured in law school, Kaelyn examines the squiggles on the canvas with all the pomposity she can muster. She’d once had a friend who loved art, but this Santiago is a creature far removed from Susan’s grounded humility. “The bold colors, the shapes… they suggest movement. Energy. Passion. It’s the struggle of composition, to maintain order when our emotions fight us.”  
  
“Indeed. This is the final entry in a series of portraits I made of Gilda. Number one thousand three hundred and seventy eight.”  
  
Santiago leads her to a dozen other paintings, demanding her opinion on each one. Kaelyn improvises as best she can until he is satisfied. Then, and only then, does she ask: “Santiago, we saw you returning to the crime scene. Tell me what that’s about.”  
  
It all pays off when he cries, “It’s for inspiration! The others don’t like to consider it, but we will all die one day.”  
  
“You find the scene of a murder _inspiring?”_ Valentine asks, his upper lip curling. But he subsides under the look Kaelyn throws him.  
  
Wandering to the 1378th portrait of Gilda, she digs through the nearby stacks of paintings. They are entirely dissimilar—some are life-like portraits of a robobrain, others depict a blonde woman, and there are yet more abstract pieces like the one on the wall. “You’ve made many paintings of Gilda. She obviously inspires you too.”  
  
Santiago sighs. “Our Gilda is a singular creature, detective. I admit I was smitten with her for a time.”  
  
Clasping her hands behind her back, Kaelyn examines the painting on the wall for a date. She isn’t entirely sure if this line of questioning will prove fruitful, but Keith was rather quick to blame Santiago. “And when did you finish your final painting of Gilda?”  
  
A pause. “Four days ago. Do you know what Julianna Riggs said of it, detective? That a toddler could make this! A toddler!” He makes a rude noise. “Julianna must still be in a foul mood after her dramatic fight with Ezra. You could hear her banshee shrieks all across the hotel!”  
  
That catches Valentine’s attention. “Do you remember what they argued about?”  
  
“Blocking out Julianna’s drivel is a vital skill if one is to survive in this place. If you want to know more, Gilda could probably tell you. She knows everything that happens around here. But I tell you, detective, Julianna’s one you should be looking at. That philistine wouldn’t know art from her own excrement.”  
  
Deciding that robobrain excrement is a mystery she can live with, Kaelyn says, “I’ll take that under advisement. Thank you for your time, Santiago.”  
  
Back in the corridor, Valentine half-cocks his head, and there’s something sly in the gesture. “Are there any machines you can’t charm?”  
  
Kaelyn leisurely looks him up and down, from the top of his hat to the smirk on his lips to his muddy boots. She arches an eyebrow and all but purrs, “The answer seems to be no. Am I wrong?”  
  
Valentine’s low chuckle sends a thrill up her spine. “No. No, you’re not.”  
  
His eyes seem to glow brighter, warm and gold, and she feels inexplicably awkward. Clearing her throat, Kaelyn glances away.  
  
Their next visit is to the actress Gilda, but it takes some wandering to find the zone marked _Beach_. The facade of a beach house opens to a well-lit cavern that slopes down into clear, cold water, and the far wall is painted in a lackluster mimicry of an ocean horizon. One robobrain idles at the foot of a recliner.  
  
Gilda’s single eye skips over Valentine after a perfunctory glance and settles on Kaelyn. “Well, well. I haven’t seen anyone with a body like that in a long, _long_ time.”  
  
Kaelyn clears her throat. “Thank you.” _I think._ “My partner and I have some questions about the case.”  
  
Gilda shifts on the sand as if trying to stretch, and Kaelyn gets the distinct impression she would be pouting if she could. “Surely you’d prefer to hear stories of my extensive acting career instead of some dreadful murder?”  
  
When in doubt, use flattery—something an old colleague told her. “As much I would like to, Ms Gilda, we have a murderer on the loose. I need to catch them before they harm anyone else here. Your safety is of the utmost priority.” Dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Kaelyn asks, “Apparently Julianna and Ezra had a big argument before he died?”  
  
The prospect of gossip is enough to lure Gilda into talking. “Oh ho! Yes, it was fever pitch, detective. She had apparently gone to the Overseer’s office to check on the state of things. But, and this is where it gets interesting, she found something that really set her off. If only I had been a little closer—I would _love_ to know what it was. Wouldn’t you, detective?”  
  
“Oh yes. There’s one more thing, if you don’t mind: Keith’s baseball bat was found at the murder. Do you know how it got there?”  
  
Her voice is a mix of blandness and derision. “I couldn’t say, detective. I can’t see Keith killing Ezra.” When they’re ready to leave, Gilda gives another pointed look towards Kaelyn—or, more specifically, her human body. “I’ll be around, detective. _Languishing_ from your inattention.”  
  
When they’re past the showers and almost to the corridor, Kaelyn blinks. “Nick. Did a robobrain just flirt with me?”  
  
“Remember what we said earlier about you charming machines?”  
  
“I take it back. There are machines I don’t want to charm.”  
  
The involvement of the Overseer’s office proves intriguing, as it’s the first mention of Vault-Tec among the residents, not to mention it begs the obvious question of how a half-dozen robobrains ended up in Vault 118. As it turns out, the latter question is soon answered by Bert Riggs, Julianna’s husband. The entrance to their quarters is framed by a decontamination arch. When the spray clears, it reveals a room filled with antiques with a narrow path to navigate around the furniture. They walk in on the tail end of an argument between two robobrains—one Julianna, the other Bert.  
  
Bert turns and wheels to the door, where he almost runs Valentine over. “Oh my, detectives! Did you need something?”  
  
While he proves useless on the subject of Julianna’s argument with Ezra, it turns out he was one of the project leads on the robobrain design. When Kaelyn asks about robobrain aggression being a possible cause of the murder, his answer strays into a tangent that Kaelyn, expert of dissembling witnesses and pontificating lawyers, can hardly follow. However, one part catches her attention: “The modulator allows us to recreate our human voices, or even mimic any human voice. Maintaining our original voices helps reinforce the neural network and preserve our sense of self. Hence we don’t have the, ah, quirks of the earlier models.”  
  
Kaelyn stops herself from glancing sideways at Valentine. _Is that how his voice mimics the original Nick’s?_ “That’s all, thank you.”  
  
Julianna hunkers between the shelves of the labyrinthine store room. Regarding her fight with Ezra, she says, “Oh, it wasn’t that big of a deal, really. He wanted more money to pay for the hotel repairs. As I was getting sick, I lashed out at the poor man when I should have listened.”  
  
Kaelyn and Valentine trade looks.  
  
With the door to the Riggs’ quarters firmly shut behind them, Valentine says, “Now _that_ was a decidedly different take on the argument. Notice how she downplayed? Either it’s hindsight, or she’s trying to avert suspicion. I’d say it’s high time we saw the Overseer’s office for ourselves.”  
  
In a quiet hallway beside the atrium sits a staircase and, with a glance to check no resident or concierge is about, Kaelyn and Valentine slink up to the office. The change is almost immediate: the walls are bare of anything other than rust. In a twisted way, Kaelyn’s thankful for the faded blue and yellow decor. This at least is familiar. Expected.  
  
She already has her screwdriver and bobby pins ready for the door to the Overseer’s office. Three bent bobby pins later, it hisses open to admit them. The Overseer’s office shares the luxurious decor of the vault below, with enameled wood veneer on the walls and a spacious timber desk that a skeleton slumps over. Any papers have since disintegrated, but the terminal is still in working condition.  
  
With a sideways glance at the skeleton in the vault suit, Kaelyn accesses the terminal logs. As always, she can’t help but read the Overseer’s directive: _Vault 118 is designed to test the social interactions between the ultra rich and working class when under confined conditions. The latter subjects are to be taken through the exclusive areas of the vault upon entry, but thereafter confined to the cramped second wing._  
  
Skimming the Overseer’s personal logs reveals one of the residents overrode the vault control system so the local subjects couldn’t be admitted, and the Overseer later took their own life rather than be trapped with freshly created robobrains.  
  
Kaelyn’s shoulders slump. “It was awful they locked the vault so no one else could get in, but... is it bad I’m grateful Vault-Tec couldn’t experiment on those people?”  
  
Valentine heaves a sigh. “Can’t ever be grateful for someone’s untimely death, but from what we know of Vault-Tec, the chances of a happy ending down here were between zero and none.”  
  
She busies herself with the terminal again and notices there’s a holotape slotted in the tape deck.  
  
_“Construction of the second wing of the vault has stalled. Once the premiere section of the vault had been completed, funding dried up. My supervisors informed me they haven’t received payments form Mr Parker, and Vault-Tec won’t pay out of pocket to complete the construction. Ezra keeps telling me Mrs Riggs hasn’t transferred the funds. But when I asked her, she said she just gave him extra for the gold paint.”_  
  
Valentine nods. “Now that’s what we call a motive. I doubt Julianna thinks she should have been nicer to the man stealing her money.”  
  
But instead of crossing the atrium to the Riggs’ quarters, Kaelyn notices a room they haven’t searched. The classroom. Bert has retrofitted the place into a crude laboratory accessible at robobrain height, and he startles when he looks up at the door. “Detectives! D—did you need something?”  
  
On an impulse, Kaelyn blurts, “Have you noticed Julianna acting strangely recently?”  
  
“Oh, well, I’m probably just being paranoid but she’s been so much more pleasant lately.” Kaelyn and Valentine trade raised eyebrows at that. “It’s nice, but unnerving. I’m worried something has happened to her. She doesn’t seem like the same person.”  
  
That gives Kaelyn pause, alerting some quiet instinct in the back of her mind. “What do you mean, doesn’t seem like the same person?”  
  
“My wife has always been a harsh woman, detective. I don’t know who is in our room, but that is not my wife.” He turns away and, voice strained, begs. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please just go.”  
  
It hits her, then. For a moment she feels lightheaded with discovery. Dragging Valentine to the darkened stairwell, she whirls to face him. “Julianna didn’t murder Ezra. _Ezra_ murdered _Julianna.”_  
  
Valentine doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Quite the accusation. Walk me through it, detective.”  
  
“We’ve been thinking in reverse: if Julianna had motive against Ezra for stealing her money, he’d have motive to silence her. Julianna discovered Ezra was embezzling their money. She confronted him, and it was bad enough that other residents heard them arguing. So Ezra murdered her and took her place. Mr Riggs said the vocal modulator could recreate _any_ human voice.”  
  
Valentine’s face is smooth, offering no indication of whether she’s right. “What about the murder weapon? Movie star boy?”  
  
“A red herring. Keith has no motive for murdering Ezra. The only person he might wish harmed is Santiago, since he’s obsessed with Gilda.”  
  
“And what about our crime scene-snooping artist?”  
  
“A little creepy to be poking around the body, a little weird about his art, but I don’t feel Pickman Gallery vibes from him.”  
  
Valentine nods then, pride warming his features. “Good. I wondered if you’d notice the vocal modulator switcheroo. We have one way of confirming all this. Let’s pay Julianna a visit, shall we?”  
  
It’s only when Valentine makes to move that Kaelyn realizes how close they’re standing. His coat brushes her thighs and under her hand she can feel the mechanics that whirr in his chest in lieu of a heartbeat. If she tilts her head up, she can count the scars on his worn face. Kaelyn steps back, flexing the hand she just removed from his chest. Her fingers tingle.  
  
Julianna is still guarding her worldly belongings, her solitary eye sharp and shrewd. “Hello, detectives. Did you have a question about the heinous murder?”  
  
With what they now know, her words feel like a taunt. Kaleyn keeps her face impassive. “You’re the murderer, aren’t you?”  
  
Julianna giggles. “That’s just silly, detective. Why would I want to kill Mr Parker?”  
  
“Because Mr Parker wasn’t murdered—Mrs Riggs was. Isn’t that right, _Ezra?”_  
  
Silence. Julianna seems to consider her options. Then her voice drops to something masculine: “Shame. I thought I could keep the ruse going a while longer. Ah well. This doesn’t have to end in violence, detectives. Just let me walk away. You don’t have to die defending outdated ideals.”  
  
“From what we’ve learned,” Valentine snaps, “you’ve been running your scam long before the bombs dropped. So I’d say the old rules still apply!”  
  
Kaelyn knocks him out of the way as Ezra shoots. Two cat cremation urns fall off the mantle, throwing up plumes of ash that make Kaelyn cough. Valentine regains his feet, pistol in hand, and Ezra wheels to track him. Red lasers sizzle the hem of Valentine’s coat as he dodges. Grabbing a poker from the fireplace, Kaelyn smashes it down on Ezra’s head dome. The tank cracks and preservative fluid spurts out. She brings it down again and again, shattering the dome completely. Glass shards slice into his brain, tiny spots of red blooming as fluid spills to the floor.  
  
Ezra shudders and goes limp.  
  
Kaelyn lowers the poker. Her tongue is icy with adrenaline. “Are you all right, Nick?”  
  
He inspects the charred holes in his trench coat. “Few burns. Nothing major.”  
  
She tosses the poker to the ground with a clatter. “I guess that’s it.”  
  
Valentine rests a hand on her shoulder. He gives her a smile, the lines around his mouth creasing in a well-worn path, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Good work, detective. You’ve got Sherlock’s deductive reasoning.”  
  
For the first time, Kaelyn notices how good he looks when he smiles, and a tiny thrill of heat skitters through her belly. His lips are as worn as the rest of him, with only their shape to distinguish them from his face, and Kaelyn wonders what they would feel like. Would they be soft or rough?  
  
She clears her throat. “That means a lot, Nick. Now let’s get out of here. I can’t feel my toes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The art is also [over here](http://eluvisen.tumblr.com/post/150857507206/art-from-chapter-5-of-what-makes-a-memory-this).


	6. Chapter 6

Dusk is a sedate affair, trading one sort of gloominess for another. Kaelyn lets Valentine walk ahead when they reach Far Harbor, watching the sweep of his shoulders under his coat.  
  
When she realizes she’s staring, she looks away. _What are you doing? Shaun is gone and you’re flirting with Nick?_  
  
Guilt trickles into the grief in her chest like opalescent water, glistening on a cave wall as it dribbles into a subterranean pool. Kaelyn turns to the nearest market stall for a distraction even though its owner is clearing the benches for the night. Ammo. Can never have enough ammo. She stands under the awning of a shack that was built to sell seafood, not weapons, but the incessant wind drives rain against the back of her neck.  
  
“Nothin’ but mainlanders these days,” Allen grouses into his beard.  
  
“Is that so.” Her flat tone turns it into a bland statement.  
  
Allen snorts. “Barely spoke a word. Well-armed, but an idiot to wear sunglasses at night. Claimed he was here on a hunting trip. Avery wouldn’t let me shoot him. She’s going to regret that. A man that quiet doesn’t bode well.”  
  
“Wait. Did he have a black coat down to his calves? Speaks in a monotone?” Out of the corner of her eye she sees Brooks in the next shack over stiffen. No time to wonder why.  
  
Allen spits. “That’s right. Why, he another friend of yours?”  
  
Ice water down her spine. Kaelyn leans over the counter. “Where did he go?”  
  
Allen jerks a thumb to the Hull. “Went through the gates, hasn’t been back.”  
  
She knows what the courser hunts.  
  
Kaelyn checks her weapons are loaded and strides into the Fog. Crumbling shacks loom on either side of the road, granting her passage through the ruined township. The ground is slick with dew and she sidesteps a pothole only for her foot to catch on a tire. If she can track the courser down and find a good position in the Fog, her sniper rifle will do the rest. The conditions are poor, but in a worst-case scenario she can fall back to Acadia and alert Chase to the danger.  
  
Enveloped by the soft, depthless gray, she soon loses any means of navigation except the road. The blocky silhouettes on either side change shape, closing over her head in fine knitting branches, and her stride morphs into a prowl. An understory of ferns and gangly grasses creep up to the road, gnawing at its edges. Rotting timber provides a feast for an array of fungi, some of which glow in the Fog like fragments of the sun shining from the ground.  
  
  
  
Kaelyn draws in a deep breath, letting the tension ease from her temples. All she can do is put one foot in front of the other, and the rhythm of it consumes her. In these dangerous moments of weightlessness, completely untethered from reality, a burden lifts from her shoulders and she’s glad she no longer has to carry it. Worse: the sheer relief that fills her up when she is too far gone to feel guilty.  
  
Funny, she’d never before noticed the true depth of the Fog. It isn’t gray at all but a deep blue, haloed in gold where distant lanterns shine and wreathed in violet where the moon glows. Light scatters in all directions, luring silver-green tendrils out of the depth of the Fog and filling the forest with a pearly incandescence. Her feet slow as she stares up at the canopy; it’s writhing net of black limbs try to snare the moon.   
  
She prowls on. The landscape shifts from forest to rocky beach and back to forest. There is... something to remember. Something about the road. To stay on it, or maybe off it.  
  
Distant pops ahead. Kaelyn follows the luring crackles, stumbles over a rotting branch. She freezes, but hears nothing in pursuit. Crouching behind a moss-laden car, she takes stock of her surroundings. Shouts and orange bursts tremble through the gloom, framed by the car windows. To her left trees converge on the crumbling road. To her right, a stony incline.  
  
She takes the hill. Crawling on all fours soon becomes clambering on hands and feet, her boots wedging into any crevice for purchase, while ferns brush over her face with itchy fronds. The Fog swallows any wet crackle of leaves. The hill evens out, offering an excellent view of the road. She can distinguish rough bursts of orange from slick blue laser fire. The latter is always followed by screams. A two-story house looms over the road, its windows lit; black silhouettes move inside. A shadow detaches from a car, punctuated by another scream from the house.  
  
She slides towards the drop off on her belly, taking cover under the sickly branches of a low-lying shrub. Flicking out the stand on her sniper rifle, she sights the shadow again. The courser.  
  
She watches and waits.   
  
The courser is crushing his foes in the house. Naturally. She tracks him as he ducks behind cover, then strafes out into the open. Lining up the crosshairs on his chest, she slides her finger inside the trigger guard. Her sniper rifle bucks with a thunderous roar.   
  
The courser falls—and gets back up. But now he’s searching for her, scanning the slope for any sign of his newest foe. She crawls away to a new position but her hands slip and air rushes by her face and the world tumbles—  
  
She skids to a halt in a mess of wet leaves and gravel. The courser sights her. Diving behind a car and activating her stealth boy buys her seconds. His footsteps crack on the asphalt, the remaining trappers forgotten. She tracks his legs as he approaches, thumbing the safety off Deliverer.  
  
She aims and squeezes a trio of shots. He’s wounded—she can smell the blood—but still too fast as he fires back one-handed. The rifle bucks, spraying wild laser fire across the hill behind her. His other arm dangles, all but useless, blood sheeting from his mangled shoulder.  
  
Drawing her switchblade, she lunges. Stealth boy or no, there’s no hiding. He lashes out, trying to twist the knife from her grip, and the world reduces to their mad scrabbling. She draws blood, down the forearm he raises to block. Flashes of black and bared teeth and—  
  
She knows when she jams the knife into his ribs. Not because he stiffens, but because he latches onto her wrist and twists. The pressure on her joints, threatening to dislocate her shoulder, forces her to her knees. Her knife clatters to the ground.  
  
The courser trembles, breathing accelerated, and the fingers that have snared her wrist loosen a fraction. She shoves her weight into him and yanks her arm towards his thumb and forefinger, breaking his hold. Instead of grabbing his discarded laser rifle, she grabs her knife and launches herself at him again.  
  
This time she hits the center of his chest. The courser stiffens and falls back into the peat. She watches to make sure he’s dead. Pulls out the knife to be doubly sure.  
  
Sitting back on her haunches, panting, she tips her face back to let air cool the sweat from her face. She hunts around for Deliverer and finds it in a pile of leaves. A crackle behind her causes her to whirl, teeth bared. Gun in one hand and knife in the other; she points both at the interloper.  
  
“Whoa, whoa. Easy there, doll. ‘S just me.”  
  
Two yellow pinpricks watch her. She shifts her feet, widens her stance, but he doesn’t close in on her.   
  
He looks between her and her weapons. “It’s okay, doll. You can drop them.”  
  
She looks at him. Blinks. Looks again. “Nick?”  
  
“That’s right. You can put the weapons down.”  
  
Blood drips from the tip of the switchblade. It takes several moments to remember how to uncurl her fingers. One clatter, then two.  
  
“That’s good. I’m going to take a step forward, all right? Are you injured at all?”  
  
She stretches, limb by limb, to find a sharp pain in her knife arm at the wrist and shoulder, as well as aches in her hip and legs. Her cheek stings. The smell of charred leather pervades her nose; the ballistic weave is hot against her skin. “No.”  
  
He’s close enough now she can make out the edges of his coat against the Fog. He ducks to collect her fallen weapons and surveys the scene over her shoulder.  
  
She wonders what he sees.  
  
Then, with an arm around her waist, he leads her out of the Fog.

—

It’s the lights that she sees first. A row of blue-violet lamps blur in the Fog. Beyond them, smears of gold and orange. The ache behind her eyes coalesces into a spike of pain at the brightness.  
  
They’re halfway up the stairs when she realizes her lungs are free. Breathing is easy, and she can see the stars.

—

Her companion leads her inside, down too many stairs to count, to a small room with cracked walls and a piercing white lantern. Her next memory is of musty, pine-scented sheets. Real pine, not the sanitized store-bought flavor. She jumps when something cool grabs her arm.  
  
“Sorry,” he murmurs. Crouching beside her, he peels back her sleeve with one hand and squeezes out a wet cloth with the other.  
  
That’s when she notices the blood. Smeared and sticky, with a metallic tang that hangs in her nose. He turns her hand palm-up to scrub at the mess with a warm cloth. For a moment, she can feel cold water on her thighs and a solid wall of heat at her back.  
  
All she knows for sure is she never wanted him to see what she did.  
  
“Nick. _Nick_. I can take care of it myself.”  
  
“Never said you couldn’t.” He only stops when she tugs her arm free, but lets her claim the washer as well.   
  
Turning away, she strips the filth from her skin, remembering to clean her fingernails where red sits in the crevices. The water bowl is murky by the time she’s finished.  
  
“I need to clean up. Properly. So scoot.” She isn’t sure if those are the right words, but her tongue seems to know what it’s doing.  
  
Valentine moves so suddenly she starts, taking a seat on the mattress beside her. Gripping her chin, he turns her head to examine her stinging cheek. “This needs to be looked at.”  
  
“I’ll do it.”  
  
She meets his gaze and her steadiness seems to convince him. Even so, Valentine’s retreat is a reluctant one. His thumb smooths over her chin before he retracts his hand. “First aid kit’s on the nightstand. Yell if you need anything.”  
  
The door clicks shut behind him. She presses her fingers to her brow and tries to think. Her cheek aches in the cold. Right. That’s a place to start. Cleaning the graze only makes it sting more, so she pokes through the medical kit for something to help. There are several syringes, but the IV bag catches her eye. Radaway.  
  
There’s something about dosages she can’t quite recall, but she does remember to disinfect her skin and the needle before sliding it into the crook of her elbow—her wrist hurts too much for it. Some tape holds it in place while she sees to cleaning up the rest of her. While she’s at it, she injects a stimpak and bandages her wrist. Her shoulder throbs, sharpening to full-fledged pain when she raises her arm. With some ginger prodding she determines it isn’t dislocated.  
  
Lying back on the bed, she presses her good hand against her forehead. While there’s no Fog around her, it swirls between her ears.

—

When she wakes, her head _pounds_.  
  
Blinking away the crusty seal from her eyes, Kaelyn almost rolls off the mattress. Moments later, she realizes the ceiling is unfamiliar.  
  
She lurches up and stars burst in front of her eyes.  
  
When Kaelyn’s vision clears and her ears stop ringing, she inspects the room. There’s a med kit and a bowl of dirty water on the crate that serves as a bedside table. Her two rifles lean against the wall with her satchel beside them. Crossing the tiny room, Kaelyn inspects her belongings for clues. No kidnapper would leave her weapons nearby. The magazine in her sniper rifle is missing three bullets while Deliverer is empty but for the chambered round. And, oddly, enough, dried blood spots her switchblade’s sheathe. That knife is more a tool than weapon to her.  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t remember how she got here, so she jumps to what she _can_ recall. The robobrains in their decadent Vault 118. Returning to Far Harbor. Being preoccupied by Valentine’s mouth. And because of that—which warms her cheeks despite her current situation—she needed some distance. That’s when she—  
  
The courser.  
  
There’s a dim memory of lining up the shot. Falling through mist and stone.  
  
She runs her thumb over the blood stains and _knows_. The courser is dead.  
  
That still doesn’t explain how she got here. Or where _here_ even is. Kaelyn probes her cheek with careful fingers. It’s swollen and achy and scabbed. After a once-over, taking stock of the bandage around her wrist, the deep ache in her shoulder, and whistling at the dark bruises mottling her skin, she stumbles to her feet. Her jacket sports several laser burns that were absorbed by the ballistic weave.  
  
The door is unlocked. When she opens it, relief strikes as quickly as recognition. Acadia. She’s in Acadia.  
  
Kaelyn wobbles down the hallway, towards the murmur of voices in the common area. Her legs are stiff and her back is a mass of pain. She doesn’t feel up to navigating the stairs just yet. Chase leans against the wall halfway down the corridor, a silent specter watching over her charges. While she doesn’t glance over her shoulder until Kaelyn is a dozen paces away, she has no doubt known Kaelyn’s exact location since she stepped out of her quarters.  
  
Kaelyn gestures to the wall beside Chase. “Do you mind if I...?”  
  
Chase’s eyes are sharp, taking in the sweat on Kaelyn’s brow and the slight lean in her stance. “Go ahead.”  
  
Kaelyn looks over Chase’s worn courser uniform, its leather cracked and faded with mud, but the look somehow suits her as much as the pockmarks that roughen her peachy complexion. “I’ve never seen a courser go rogue before. After all the Institute puts you through, I didn’t know if anyone could slip the leash.” Her thoughts turn to X6-88, then. She hopes he made it out of the Institute safely. And didn’t kill too many of her people along the way.  
  
“You know too much about the Institute.” Chase turns her head enough to knife Kaelyn with an accusatory look. “If you’re human, that doesn’t leave many options for how you gained your knowledge.”  
  
There’s no room for offense when safety is at stake. Kaelyn stares at a gouge in the wall across the corridor. “The Institute kidnapped my son. They got what they deserved—I made sure of that.”  
  
“No wonder you took out that courser in the forest.” Chase pauses. “Did you ever find your son?”  
  
Beneath the gouge is a series of tiny chips in the wall, like a stony constellation of dark stars. Hairline fractures criss-cross over the concrete, betraying centuries of wear and tear.  
  
Chase sighs, short and tight. “Whatever they did to him, I’m sorry.”  
  
For the length of a blink Kaelyn is almost tempted to tell her. To ease the weight of the cold-stone grief that anchors her to a crater in Cambridge. But instead she pulls away from the wall and, rounding the corner, almost runs into Dejen. He’s too close for it to be a coincidence.  
  
They restore a comfortable distance between them as quickly as they can. There’s no distaste in the gesture; only respect between two mistrustful people. Dejen looks her up and down with his black eyes. “Shit. Should’ve guessed you were the real deal. I thought you were a risk, but here we are.”  
  
Kaelyn’s head hurts and her heart hurts, so she’s a little slow on the uptake. “I’m sorry, Dejen. What’s this about?”  
  
“I have my own set of contacts. They warned me Chase screwed up, and that the courser was on our tail. But you took him out without anyone asking you to. You put your life in danger for us. I want you to know that’s not for nothing.”  
  
Kaelyn nods once. “Thanks, Dejen.”  
  
This place, with its synths living in the open, accepting the inherent risks, and doing all they can to protect each other—it isn’t something Kaelyn ever expected to see. Glory sure would have gotten a kick out of Acadia.  
  
Memories of her friend are too raw for the thought to make her smile. A part of her wants to be back in the Fog, where the rough edges of her heart are smoothed away by a soft caress of gray. Alas, breakfast will have to suffice.  
  
Her entrance to the designated common area doesn’t go unnoticed. Cole waves her over to the counter where breakfast supplies have been laid out,  
  
When Kaelyn has her toast, a woman offers her a place beside her. “So you’re that new gal! I’m Miranda. It’s nice to meet someone from back home. Kasumi doesn’t want to talk about it, but is there any news from the Commonwealth?”  
  
Kaelyn scrounges up all the details she can think of between picking at her bread roll. The news of the Institute and the Brotherhood of Steel earn cheers from nearby eavesdropping synths, who then drop any pretense of not listening.  
  
Miranda takes it all in, her gaze distant as she imagines it. She tucks a dark blonde strand of hair behind an ear. “I’d like to see the Commonwealth again, once things have settled down. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with Acadia, but it can get a little boring.”  
  
“In a few years, maybe, when people have put it behind them, it might be safe for you to return to the Commonwealth. Is there anywhere in particular you want to go?”  
  
With a few careful questions, it’s easy to keep the others around her talking. Kaelyn doesn’t mind. If anything, it feels good to let the chatter wash over her, absorbing what is normalcy for these people. They must monitor the wind turbines, clean out the lower levels of the observatory, grow their own crops, and there are always endless repairs to be done.  
  
After the clean up tub goes around to collect all the dirty dishes, Kaelyn sets out to find Valentine. It means braving the stairs, and never before has she been so thankful for hand rails as her stiff legs cry out for mercy. There’s no sign of him near Kasumi’s nook or anywhere else on the lower levels.  
  
At the top of the observatory, she hears DiMA’s gentle voice and Valentine’s answering baritone. “—and don’t even get my secretary started when I tell her I literally have a screw loose!”  
  
With one hand trailing against the wall, Kaelyn wanders to the telescope room. DiMA and Valentine stand before one of the server hives. Even second gen senses outstrip those of a human, as they both glance up at the same moment.  
  
Valentine looks her over, and his face softens with naked relief. “Good to see you up and about. You look better.”  
  
“Morning, gentlemen. I’m assuming it’s morning.”  
  
“That’s right,” DiMA says. “I trust you are better rested?”  
  
Valentine trots down from the dais in a movement that is far too energetic. “We’ll continue this later, DiMA.”  
  
DiMA is already retreating behind his computer bays with a smile. “Of course. It was nice to speak to you again, Nick.”  
  
“Chatting with DiMA?” Kaelyn murmurs when he stands before her. It seems curiosity about his family apparently outweighs his skepticism.  
  
“The old synth isn’t that bad. I, well, I overreacted when we met him. But that’s not important right now.” Catching Kaelyn’s arm, Valentine steers her outside and up the stairs to a concrete balcony grafted onto the side of the observatory. “I think it’s time for you and I to have a talk.”  
  
Kaelyn leans on the the railing to ease the weight off her leg. “I’ve been looking for you, Nick. Where have you been?”  
  
“After you booted me out of your room, I lent a hand to Kasumi tinkering with her latest pet project. Kid’s a machine whisperer, let me tell you. Then I was up here with DiMA.”  
  
Kaelyn can’t recall evicting him from her room. Pressing the heel of her hand to her brow, she says, “Sorry about that.”  
  
His voice is suddenly sharp. “For what? For walking out of Far Harbor on your _own,_ at _night,_ to find a courser in the proverbial haystack?”  
  
She blinks, taken aback. “Nick, that’s not what I—”  
  
Valentine’s hands clamp on her shoulders, one artificial dermis and the other cold steel, forcing her to face him. “You listen and listen closely. I kept my distance because I thought you needed space to mourn your boy. But you’ve been nothing short of reckless since we got off the boat and it’s gotta _stop_. You shouldn’t be wandering the island on your own.”  
  
She recoils, stung, and shakes him off. “You’re not my keeper, Nick!”  
  
“The difference between you and me is that I’m not affected by the Fog. You are.” Valentine shakes his head back and forth. An unhappy smile curls his lips. “Hell, doll, if you saw yourself every time you step into that blasted Fog. I don’t want to impose rules on ya. But I’m not gonna sit back and watch you kill yourself, either.”  
  
“Not kill myself. That’s not what I…”  
  
“Then _what?”_  
  
She opens her mouth but can’t speak. _I want to forget it all. The fear, the grief, the happiness I used to have._  
  
Valentine grips her shoulders again. His voice is gentler this time. “We haven’t come this far to lose you now. Promise me you’ll be more careful? That you’ll take me with you next time?”  
  
Kaelyn closes her eyes. She never can resist charming men. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the art is also [over here](http://eluvisen.tumblr.com/post/151184781006/from-chapter-six-of-what-makes-a-memory).


	7. Chapter 7

Kaelyn and Valentine’s rather extensive to-do list has them criss-crossing the island for the next fortnight. Neither of them trust sleeping in the wilderness, so the closest they come to camping is a borrowed mattress in Far Harbor or Acadia. Her wrist heals enough within the week that she no longer draws Valentine’s ire whenever she holds a gun or eats with a fork. These days he always keeps one eye on her back, watchful for any more incidents.  
  
On their second day out, en route to the homestead of Cassie Dalton’s uncle, Valentine investigates a Vim! truck by the side of the road. Kaelyn remains outside, scanning the trees on the side of the road while his back is turned.  
  
“Well, well.” Valentine’s voice echoes through the truck. “This should come in handy. Come take a look.”  
  
At the back, strapped down so it wouldn’t jostle the truck, is a suit of T-50 power armor. The armor is a lurid green that practically glows in the dim space, with Vim! Refresh branded on the torso. Better yet, there’s a fusion core in the back.  
  
“This might help ya. It should keep the Fog out, at least.”  
  
Valentine steps back, holding Kaelyn’s belongings as the suit closes around her. Sturges showed her a long time ago how to run a basic diagnostic, and she’s been in and out of power armor often enough she can now do it in her sleep. The interior harness has been fitted to someone wider in the shoulder and narrower in the hip, but the mechanical joints track her movements with enough accuracy. The HUD reads a mostly full fusion core and no damage.  
  
“How on earth did they wrangle one of these from the army?” Kaelyn wonders. It also serves to test the exterior speakers. “Last I heard, Vim! was running into financial troubles.”  
  
The tinny interior speaker squawks as it picks up Valentine’s voice. “Let’s not question our luck. For all we know, this is as good as it’s going to get today.”  
  
Being a suit loaned for civilian use, the power armor has no defensive or offensive modifications. She still flattens the fog crawler lurking at Dalton Farm.

—

On the thirteenth day, Valentine holds up a hand and waves Kaelyn over to a low-hanging branch. Low-hanging to her in her power armor, at least. It takes several long moments to notice the details that caught his eye. Snapped twigs, torn leaves, and several strands of white hair.  
  
Trading a look with Valentine, they come to the same conclusion: the synth boy Chase asked them to find. Derrick. Brooks had given them a description that included pale hair. Neither Kaelyn nor Valentine are excellent trackers, but there’s no time to fetch Longfellow. At least the trail, a frenzied path torn through the forest, proves easy enough to follow.  
  
Ever since acquiring power armor, Kaelyn feels different. Not just from stomping through the underbrush, swiping away branches that scrape her shoulder guards, and navigating with boots that sink inches into the dead understory. The Fog curls about her suit now, probing the mechanized joints, peering into her visor. But her armor is sealed.  
  
Right now, a clear head is exactly what she needs.  
  
The forest opens into a small clearing; it’s a run down camping ground with cabins. Kaelyn and Valentine check them one by one, hoping for the synth, wary of ferals. But the grounds are quiet in the way that only comes from vacancy.  
  
In the last cabin, they find a bloody sleeping bag and a dead wolf.  
  
Valentine crouches down to inspect its bloody muzzle. “Someone ran afoul of the local wildlife. Could be our missing synth, or else there’s another lost soul tearing through the forest.”  
  
Kaelyn finds a trail of blood leading out the door, and they keep moving. She can’t tell how much blood is from the wolf and how much from the unfortunate victim. The trail disappears into a mess of churned mud and bootprints, and Kaelyn hangs back so she won’t destroy any clues with her power armor.  
  
Valentine combs over the site. “Over here.”  
  
There’s a divot in the leaf litter that looks like something has been dragged through the understory. They follow it down the hill and out of the forest to a rocky slope where only the most tenacious plants grow. Down the hill, towards the gray ocean, a two story shack perches on the cliff side with a winding path down to a private jetty. The windows are lit.  
  
Valentine’s expression is grim. “Is it too much to hope those folks took in our synth and cleaned him up?”  
  
No one comes out of the house to halt their approach, even if there’s movement inside. Piles of cracked bones are strewn across the yard. Some are clearly animal. Some aren’t.  
  
“Licked clean,” Valentine rumbles. “Not a speck of marrow.”  
  
A man leans by the front door, thick arms folded across his chest, and his glassy eyes dart between the prototype synth and the mechanical woman. His smile has too many teeth. “What do you want?”  
  
His smile itches under Kaelyn’s skin. “We’re looking for a young man. White hair. Have you seen him?”  
  
The man—a trapper, judging by his rough attire—lights up. “Oh yeah. We seen him. He was bit real bad by something.” The man shrugs. “Why waste the meat?”  
  
It takes several moments for his meaning to register. Her hand strays to Deliverer, a movement that can’t possibly go unnoticed in power armor. She could kill them all. She knows she can. It wouldn’t be the first time, after all.   
  
Inside the house, something moans.  
  
“What was that?” Valentine steps forward, inches from the threshold. “This meat isn’t going to be _wasted_ because he’s still alive, isn’t he?”  
  
“Eh, not for long.” There’s an anticipatory gleam in the trapper’s eyes.  
  
Kaelyn tightens her grip on Deliverer. She’s about to make a threat— _sloppy,_ her inner lawyer scolds—when Valentine says, “We didn’t come here for trouble. Just the boy. Let him go and we won’t bother you any further.”  
  
His words douse her.  
  
The trapper’s lip curls back. There’s dark red gunk between his teeth. “You want me to give up perfectly good meal? Ain’t easy to find enough out here, you know.”  
  
“He isn’t _meat,”_ Valentine says, and there’s a thread of tension underneath determined calm. “He’s a person. What’ll it be? Are you going to let us all walk away peacefully?”  
  
There’s a discontented rumble from inside the house. “That’s our food!” another man objects. “They can get their own. If you hand it over, mebbe you’ll be next, Raul.”  
  
The first trapper draws his pistol and fires, and doesn’t stop firing until he’s unloaded the entire magazine into the dissenter. He tries to pull the trigger a few more times even though the slide has locked back, then tosses his gun away. The malcontent drops to the floor, drawing a dozen hungry pairs of eyes from around the house as he gasps and dies.   
  
The first trapper pushes off from the wall, and with a gesture his fellows are already stripping the fresh corpse of its belongings. Kaelyn’s stomach turns, but she doesn’t dare take her eyes off them. An overlarge cooking fire crackles on the living room floor—and beside it is a pile of raw meat. On that pile wriggles a bound figure with a shock of white hair. The trapper returns with the hog-tied bundle over his shoulder. With profound disgust, he dumps the synth on the ground and kicks him across the porch. “Now go. Before we get hungry again.”  
  
Kaelyn keeps an eye on the trapper as she scoops Derrick up. He’s a shivering mass of rope-bound limbs and torn clothes. His hair is dark with soot and blood.  
  
“Thanks, gents.” Valentine tips his hat and gestures for Kaelyn to lead the way.  
  
A safe distance away from the trapper house, Kaelyn lowers Derrick to the ground and hunts for her first aid kit. While Valentine cuts the bindings away, she rolls up Derrick’s sleeve to inject a stimpak. Blood seeps down his thigh while his wrists and ankles are a mess of oozing rope burn. He moans when Valentine tourniquets and bandages his torn leg. His face is bone white but for the red circles of fever on his cheeks.  
  
“Derrick? Derrick, can you hear me? Hold on. We’re going to get you to safety, okay?” Kaelyn scoops him into her arms again and Valentine helps get him settled. The synth’s weight is slight, even with her augmented strength, and she can’t feel him through her protective metal skin. But the boy curled in her arms anchors her as the Fog swirls around them and rage swirls in her heart.  
  
Not again. Never again.  
  
By now the mountain paths are familiar, but it’s difficult to run and not jostle Derrick at the same time. Every moan that escapes his mouth twists something in her chest, spurring her legs in time with her jumping heart. Valentine keeps pace with her, watching out for threats.   
  
Acadia’s clear skies have never been more welcome.  
  
“Get Faraday!” Kaelyn snaps at the nearest loitering synths. She barely squeezes through the front door in her power armor, but there’s no time to divest herself of it. Derrick’s pale skin gleams with sweat and his throat bobs weakly. She’s halfway down the stairs when Faraday emerges from the telescope room. “He needs medical attention!”  
  
“Right away! Let’s get him to the clinic.”  
  
With Faraday and Valentine at her heels, Kaelyn rushes to the clinic. She picks up a third shadow called Chase, who takes one look at Derrick and pales. Faraday’s fingers fly over the wall terminal, and the surgery doors open. While Faraday prepares his implements, Kaelyn deposits Derrick on the gurney as gently as she can. The synth groans, his breaths fast and shallow. Then Faraday is pushing at her arm, evicting them from the surgery.  
  
Chase stands in the corridor with her arms crossed. “That was the synth who was supposed to arrive?”  
  
Kaelyn nods. “Trappers found him.”  
  
She closes her eyes, brows twitching. The expression is at odds with the black uniform she wears. “I knew I should have gone out to meet him. Thank you for finding him. Here, for your trouble.”  
  
Kaelyn isn’t certain about receiving payment when she was on the verge of killing all the trappers, so she passes the caps stack to Valentine. He deserves it more than her.   
  
Kaelyn hits the seals and her armor spits her out into the cold room. She’s going to have to clean the blood off. If only the paint job was red. She looks down at her hands, wondering why they aren’t red either.  
  
Valentine comes to stand behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. They feel different; one is smooth with the weight of polymer, the other light and skeletal. She wants to lean back and let him take her weight.  
  
They stand together, quiet and subdued, until Valentine mutters, “Ya know, it isn’t every day I’m thankful that I can’t be eaten. Not unless someone was severely iron deficient. It’s the little things in life, I suppose.”  
  
Kaelyn closes her eyes. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”  
  
“I think we’ve done all we can. It’s up to Faraday now.”  
  
“Nick?”  
  
“Yes, doll?”  
  
“Thank you for being there.”  
  
“Any time.”

—

With no other option except for pacing in front of the clinic, Kaelyn and Valentine head back out. The ever-present dangers of the island force her to focus on her surroundings instead of worrying about the half-dead synth. Besides, the Mariner could always use more help reinforcing the Hull.   
  
For another five days, they’re kept busy with a list of jobs that never grows smaller. If they aren’t collecting information and supplies to brave the Deep Fog, they’re scouring the island to find this or kill that, sometimes with Longfellow in tow. Along the way, they scour the coast for a stranded boat Faraday requested they keep an eye out for. He gave them the boat’s intended course, but that’s of little use when it could have sunk anywhere, no matter how much Faraday insists it ran aground.  
  
At the Southwest Harbor, success. After clearing out a house full of trappers who somehow got their hands on working turrets, Valentine stands on the back porch that overlooks the cliff. “Take a look at this.”  
  
Kaelyn jogs to his side, sending tremors through the floorboards. Valentine points to the rocks below and the boat impaled on them. Trails of oil gleam on the ocean, choking the water with a thick film. The ship they seek has run afoul of the rocks at the base of a cliff and so someone—most likely the trapper gang—has make a crude boardwalk of ladders and platforms to reach it. While Valentine climbs down, Kaelyn jumps. For a moment there is nothing but empty air before gravity pulls at her power armor and her stomach plummets. The ground rumbles as she lands, bending her knees to absorb the shock.  
  
Kaelyn swears she hears Valentine mutter, “Show off.”  
  
Squelching through stranded bundles of sea weed, they approach the boat with care. Kaelyn takes a step onto the deck, feeling for any give that might send her through the floor into the ocean. They carry all the equipment they can salvage up to the house perched on the cliff, keeping a wary eye out for any surviving trappers. From there they wrap the goods in tarps or secure them in trunks to grant a measure of protection from the pervading damp.   
  
Loading up the power armor with all the equipment they can strap to it is an exercise in creative knots and weight distribution. Valentine takes the lead on the return journey to Acadia, his lighter feet better suited to the vanguard while Kaelyn stomps up the mountain. For her part, she does her best to not tip over or get stuck in a bog. The foreign weight pulls at the frame in a constant reminder: if they are pursued, she has no escape. The ropes criss-cross around her torso, preventing her from escaping the suit. On the final stretch up the mountain, the Fog begins to fizzle out as they pass the condensers, only to be replaced by a light shower.  
  
Kaelyn checks the tarps still cover everything, then looks to the damp patches on Valentine’s shoulders. He tilts his head to let his fedora catch the worst of the rain. “Hey, Valentine?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“How are you doing with the weather? Water and electronics don’t usually mix.”  
  
Valentine glances at her over his shoulder. “Bundling up these data drives reminded you of me?”  
  
Kaelyn coughs. “Uh... maybe?”  
  
For a moment she thinks she’s actually offended him, then Valentine chuckles. “I may be an old prototype, but I’m waterproof.”  
  
Faraday appears at Acadia’s entrance as if he can sense nearby technology, and a number of other synths help unload the salvage from the power armor. Kaelyn gets the impression it’s less altruism and more curiosity or boredom, but her aching back is thankful for their helpers nonetheless.  
  
The recent days have carved themselves into Faraday; there are fresh lines around his eyes, his disheveled lab coat hangs loosely from his body, his hair is in disarray. But his excitement now is like a shot of caffeine that leaves him jittery. “Thank you for recovering these! Oh, and you should know Derrick will pull through. He’s quiet after what he went through, understandably so, but he’s ready for visitors if you’d like to see him.”  
  
Despite Faraday’s best efforts to cheer up the clinic with bright lights and tie-dyed blankets—a local boredom-staving project, no doubt—it cannot evict the sterile ambiance that haunts medical facilities everywhere. It also isn’t aided by the fact that this place is essentially a concrete basement with a temperature to match. A heater made from spare parts rumbles in the corner, consuming precious fuel, but it can’t conquer the subterranean chill.  
  
A lump huddles on one of the gurneys. It shudders at the creak of the door and Derrick bolts upright, even if he grimaces a moment later. The whites of his eyes are visible even from this distance. “Who—? What do you want?”  
  
“Just stopping by to see how you’re doing,” Valentine says with a voice normally reserved for grieving clients and traumatized witnesses. “Derrick, was it? Good to meet ya. I’m Nick Valentine and this is Kaelyn Prescott.”  
  
Derrick cocks his head on his side, squinting at his visitors. “Faraday said you two rescued me from those— those—”  
  
“Hey,” Kaelyn says softly, “it’s okay.”  
  
His slender shoulders bow and he rearranges his blankets, leaning back against the wall. “I can still see it. When I close my eyes. If only I’d listened to Brooks, I never would have… They were—laughing about it. They fought over who would get what part of me…”  
  
Kaelyn sits on the gurney beside him, and her movement is enough to jolt him back to reality. “Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay. You aren’t there anymore. Look, I know it’s going to take time to believe it, but you’re safe here. Trappers don’t bother Acadia.”  
  
But now that’s he’s worked up, Derrick delivers an anxious stream of questions. “You’re synths too? I never thought I’d ever see so many outside of the Institute. Is it—really safe here? Do you know how to fight coursers? I swear I was being followed! That’s why I ran.”  
  
“Woah, slow down there, Derrick.” Kaelyn tackles his questions in chronological order. “I’m human, but everyone else around here are synths. Yes, Acadia is secure from everything the island can throw at it. And I took out a courser not long before we found you, actually.” She keeps her voice even through that last part by sheer force of will.  
  
Derrick blinks at her. “You’re human? Really? I mean, I just never would have thought— that is, I see you’re, uh, friends with synths.” His gaze flicks to Valentine.  
  
Kaelyn can’t help a smile. “It’s okay. Our reputation of being close-minded and dangerous is earned.”  
  
“You keep saying it’s okay when it’s _not.”_ He scrubs his hands over his face and fists them in his disheveled white hair. Exhaustion hangs heavy around his shoulders. “Thanks again. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if you hadn’t arrived.”  
  
Kaelyn suspects it’s something he thinks of regardless of what he wants.  
  
“You’re welcome, kid,” Valentine says. “Try to get some rest. When you’re up for it, I’m sure someone will be happy to give you a tour.” Jerking his chin at the door, he and Kaelyn retreat to give Derrick some peace.  
  
On her way down to the designated bathroom to scrub salt and mud from her pores, Kaelyn is waylaid by Cog, one of the resident merchants. Under his heavy brow, his eyes are dark. “Word is you were asked to check out some boat. Storage drives, right? You need to come with me for a minute.”  
  
Something about his sober manner makes her suspect a shower will have to wait. “What’s this about, Cog? Word must get around pretty fast if you already know.”  
  
“When death by boredom is a legitimate concern around here, we’ll scrounge for any news. As for what we’re doing, you and I going to have a chat with Jule.”  
  
Cog leads her to a quiet corner on the lowest level, where a haphazard stack of crates lean against a yellow generator. In the distance, Kasumi hammers and swears at some stubborn bit of machinery with profanity no doubt gleaned from the sailors in her family. Cog calls, “You down here, kiddo? I need you to tell our friend here what you told me.”  
  
At first, nothing. Then a panel pops off the side of a crate, kicked by a jean-clad leg. A porcelain pale face peeps around the edge of the crate and her expression crumples. “What the hell, Cog! That was between us!”  
  
Cog hardly bats an eyelash. “Skip it, okay? She’s here to help. Promise.”  
  
“Fine. I don’t see the point, but whatever.” Jule’s voice loses its sharp edge, dropping to a low moody tone as she tells Kaelyn, “Look. You know my head’s messed up—brains scrambled, right? I keep having these dreams. There’s— this is so stupid. There’s this boat, and it’s on fire.” She’s laughing now, her voice swinging back up to its unnerving cheerfulness. She laughs, and the sound scrapes goosebumps along Kaelyn’s arms. “And I hear screaming. I think it’s me!”  
  
“That’s awful, Jule. I’m sorry. So Cog obviously thinks I can help—wait. You think it has something to do with the ship Faraday sent us after?”  
  
Cog folds his meaty forearms over his chest. “How many boats have crashed around here recently? Tell her the rest of it, kiddo.”  
  
Jule wraps her arms around her middle and addresses the patch of glowing fungus that grows through a crack in the ground. “Look, I know this is ridiculous, but I found this key. It’s for... I don’t know what it’s for. But I just know it’s connected. So take it and—fix this.”  
  
She lifts one trembling hand, her pale fingers unfurling around an iron key spotted with black smears. Kaelyn turns it over, wondering what Valentine might make of all this. As she knows from Avery, the island doesn’t see many visitors, so Cog could be onto something. At the same time, the waters around the island are treacherous, having claimed many ships over the years. The key itself is almost large enough to fit a door, with a number of blocky teeth. Black stains her fingers. Soot.  
  
Kasumi has no insights for Kaelyn about the situation. She’s kept her distance from Jule to avoid flaring a migraine, and only found out about the storage drives when Faraday was overjoyed at lunch.  
  
After a second, more successful trip to the bathroom, Kaelyn finds Valentine outside enjoying a cigarette. He takes one look at her and asks, “Trouble brewing?”  
  
“I’d bet money on it. We need to go back out to the boat. Jule has nightmares that sound strangely similar to the crash we saw. She has this key. Doesn’t know what it’s for, but she gave it to me. Cog’s convinced it’s all connected.”  
  
“If it’ll help put minds at ease, we can make a return trip.”  
  
They search the boat a second time, seeking any locks that might partner with the key. The steamer trunk is where Kaelyn left it on its seaside perch. The key fits, and she isn’t sure what to make of that. There are weapons and canned goods and spare ammunition, along with spare clothes of unusual quality. Wrapped inside a black satin dress is a small journal, and written on the inside cover is the name _Victoria_.  
  
“Who’s this Victoria, and how did Jule get her key?” Valentine wonders. “Haven’t heard the name around Acadia.”  
  
While her stomach quibbles at this breach of privacy, Kaelyn flips to the last entry, about two thirds through the book.

> _Never should have let Faraday talk me into this._ _Never could resist that sweet face of his. ‘Just steer the boat,’ he said. ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. And then saying there’s nothing he can’t fix if something goes wrong? A reminder I did_ not _need. Just what can he do in that lab of his? He keeps everything under wraps, terminal locked tight and everything, and that just makes me more nervous..._

As much as Kaelyn hates to admit to it, there’s a part of her that wants to flip back a page and keep reading. She resists, knowing, as Valentine said not too long ago, that a detective shouldn’t rifle through someone’s literal or figurative underwear drawer. Without good reason, at least.  
  
“So we’ve got a crashed boat, this missing Victoria, and Jule with the key.” Valentine hums. “Can’t take five steps without tripping over a new mystery on this rock. But Faraday—he knew the boat was reachable by land and didn’t say why. What say we pay him a visit?”


	8. Chapter 8

Faraday gets antsy under questioning and, interestingly, DiMA swoops in to his rescue. “I hope everything is well here. Have you devised a way to reach the Nucleus yet?”  
  
So Kaelyn and Valentine switch to Plan B.  
  
Faraday sits in front of one of the terminal bays in the telescope room, tinkering with his new storage drives. Chase has disappeared up the stairs to the very top of the observatory, presumably for the view. While Valentine wanders into DiMA’s abode, Kaelyn enters the clinic. Since Derrick has been given a clean bill of health he’s been helping out Faraday because he is gentle, without the sleek movements that mark Chase as a predator, but the room is empty. She doesn’t even need a stealth boy to slip in undetected.  
  
Her pip-boy, set to the lowest possible volume, relays the sound it detects from the tiny receiver clipped in Valentine’s coat. Having someone as mechanically gifted as Kasumi, who can find or create a contraption on the fly, is an unexpected boon. Kaelyn keeps an ear out for the emergency phrase—a warning that someone is moving downstairs as well as a last ditch effort at distraction on Valentine’s part.  
  
While she’s hacked a number of terminals in recent months, she’s never spied on an ally like this before, and she has to wonder at the relative morality of breaking into someone’s private terminal even if her intention is to help Jule. This was once handled by search warrants, but Valentine doesn’t seem as bothered by the breach of privacy. While she trusts his judgment, she doesn’t share his certainty they’re justified.  
  
DiMA’s dreamy voice, even small and tinny, carries the weight of his contemplations. _“What do you think of Acadia, Nick?”_  
  
_“Well, living in a scientific observatory wouldn’t exactly be high on my list of comfortable spots. At least that Fog is far enough below.”_  
  
Despite the situation, Kaelyn allows herself a thin smile. _Nick Valentine, my city boy to the end._ She resumes typing. The password is to deter casual snooping, not a dedicated hacker.  
  
_“I was talking more about our ideals. Synths as their own way of life. Not hiding from what they are.”_  
  
_“Kind of easy for you to say that, though, isn’t it? You and I, we can’t pretend to be anything else.”_  
  
The terminal finally accepts the password she feeds it. A brief glance at Faraday’s current projects confirms there’s nothing on Victoria; Kaelyn forces her eyes to blur over the logs and backs out. Despite being in the middle of raiding his private terminal, she doesn’t want to invade his privacy any more than she already has. She skims the past projects and ends up in a series of medical logs.  
  
_“That just means we’re in the perfect position to help our kind. We can be the example in the face of adversity.”_  
  
_“I’m not looking to be anyone’s example. You help who needs help. It doesn’t have to be more then that.”_  
  
Kaelyn’s hands still. Sentences jump out of one entry:  
  
_Subject V5 brought in after incident during boat travel..._  
  
_Severe trauma to head and upper torso; cognitive functions impaired..._  
  
_Objectively, there was no choice. She’d suffered so much damage. But this was our friend and we wiped her memory without her consent._  
  
_“So,”_ Valentine’s voice hits the tinny edges of the radio’s playback range. _“Can you tell me why this blasted Fog comes and goes?”_  
  
The warning phrase.  
  
Kaelyn logs out, checks there are no signs of tampering, and turns off the radio. She switches on her stealth boy just in case. Easing the door open a crack, she checks the corridor. Soft footsteps echo nearby, but the coast is clear. For now. She’s just closed the clinic door when Nazeem rounds the corner. Praying the corridor is too dark to spot the tell-tale ripple in the air, Kaelyn backs up, timing her steps to Nazeem’s, praying he can’t hear her heartbeat.  
  
Nazeem stops in the middle of the corridor, peering into Cog’s room.  
  
Now level with the corner, Kaelyn sidesteps around it. She backs up a few more steps, deactivates her stealth boy and climbs the stairs two at a time until she reaches the next level, then walks more normally—and loudly. The back of her neck prickles, but Kaelyn fights every urge to look over shoulder to check if anyone is following her. She enters the telescope room, leaning against the doorway.  
  
DiMA’s eyes flit to her, attracted by the movement. His smile, she notices, while genuine, is a touch stiff without showing his teeth. “Ah. Welcome again. Nick and I were just discussing the Fog, among the philosophical quandaries of how synths are forced live.”  
  
Kaelyn laces her hands over her stomach. “This is your preferred small talk, gentlemen?”  
  
DiMA chuckles. “When one has all the time to ponder, it’s easy to become preoccupied with difficult questions.”  
  
She wonders. How can DiMA, with his gentle heart, with his protests against the Railroad’s methods, permit Victoria’s memory wipe?  
  
Maybe Kaelyn can hide her tells from one old synth, but not from the other. They make it down one set of stairs before Valentine pulls her into a storage closet. He searches her face. “What did you find?”  
  
Kaelyn closes her eyes. “Jule knew about the boat and had the key because _she’s_ Victoria. She was so badly injured in the crash that wiping her memory was the only way to reverse the damage. Faraday saved her life, but...”  
  
Behind her eyes, she sees Jule huddling in the basement, beset by another migraine, her memories broken.  
  
_“They_ did this to her? Figured it was Amari who botched the job on Jule. Should have known better than to doubt her.”  
  
Speaking of. “Do you think Amari could help Jule?”  
  
“It would be a long shot at best, but Amari specializes in those.”  
  
Since Cog asked Kaelyn come to him before talking to Jule, that’s what she does, laying out the journal, the key, and her account of Faraday’s medical log.  
  
Cog runs a hand through his messy black hair, then tightens it into a fist. His breath escapes him in one noisy gust. “We can’t tell Jule. Is it messed they’d do this to one of us? Yes. But if this gets out it’ll not only crush her but it could ruin this whole little fake utopia everyone has going.”  
  
Valentine asks, “You think Jule doesn’t have the right to know her own history?”  
  
Cog snorts. “She has the right to be happy, too. The honesty policy is bullshit. What do you think this will do to her? To everyone here?”  
  
Kaelyn sighs. “I don’t know, Cog. I really don’t.”  
  
“Shit. Shit. You want to tell her? Fine. It’s on your head.”  
  
Kaelyn still hasn’t decided when she finds Jule sitting on a lumpy couch in the common room, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead. Anxiety caused another flare up, and now she grits her teeth against every background noise. Kaelyn wonders if she even suspects that the broken dreams were something more—if that, more than confiding in Kaelyn, is what triggered another bout of pain.  
  
It seems the past can still haunt someone whether she recognizes its face or not.  
  
For a moment, Kaelyn wonders what she would look like if she couldn’t remember her old life, or Vault 111, or all that came after. Would she be caught in limbo, always wondering?  
  
No matter the absurdity of it, she can’t shake the thought.  
  
_This place is supposed to be a refuge for synths. And Cog’s right, the people might panic if word gets out, and Derrick showed it’s too dangerous for them to be wandering the island. But Jule asked for help. Dammit, I don’t want to hurt her or anyone else here._  
  
Sometimes good intentions aren’t enough. Not DiMA’s, and not Kaelyn’s.  
  
Jule’s eyes widen when she takes in Kaelyn. Her fingers clutch the sleeves of her jacket so tightly her fingernails are white. “Oh shit. What? _What?_ You found something. I can tell. Shit!”  
  
Swallowing her misgivings, Kaelyn folds her hands over her stomach. “Jule. The key opens a steamer trunk—one I found in the shipwreck. The boat from your dreams was the same one that crashed. You were the one who sailed it.”  
  
“If all this stupid mess is mine, why don’t I remember it?” There’s no mistaking her bared teeth for a smile.  
  
In these last moments, Kaelyn can watch the truth careen towards Jule, mere seconds until impact. She wants to close her eyes, look away from the imminent crash, but Jule deserves better. “You were injured in the shipwreck. Faraday saved your life. But to do that, he—had to wipe your memory.”  
  
At first, Jule’s face doesn’t change at all. Then she murmurs, “Somehow, I always knew it. That these people who call themselves my friends—” Now her voice climbs and keep climbing: “They— who gives them the right to decide I don’t get to be me anymore?!”  
  
By this point they’ve attracted an audience. Kaelyn pierces them with a glare, one by one, until they move along.  
  
“I didn’t ask for any of this. Shit, this place is the same as anywhere else. You just get screwed over no matter what. I’m done.“ The manic glint is back in her eye. “I quit! You know what the best part of all this is? I have nowhere else to go!”  
  
Kaelyn keeps her voice steady, grasping at the threads of calm that might pull Jule back from the edge.“Jule. If you make it back to the Commonwealth, the Railroad can help you. Or you could find a settlement that’s looking for new hands. I don’t want to make any promises, but the Railroad may be able to help with the migraines.“ If anyone can treat the problem, it would be Amari. She’s had practice with peculiar cases.  
  
“Fuck that! No one else is getting into my head!”  
  
Kaelyn spreads her hands. “That’s completely fair, and your call to make. My point is, you have options.”  
  
Jule scoffs. She darts down the stairs, presumably to her hiding place, snapping at Nazeem along the way. Dinner with Acadia’s residents that night is a mixture of awkward silences and attempts to pry the story from Kaelyn. By now word has gotten around that something happened with Jule. It may be the flickering lamplight, but it seems like Cog’s jaw is clenched tight even when he shrugs casually, deflecting the questions directed at him. Kaelyn has to look away.  
  
Kasumi’s reputation for being introverted saves Kaelyn. When she emerges from the basement, wiping grease from her hands, they pick a couch away from the main group to finish their meals in peace. While Acadia shares Far Harbor’s basic seafood fare, the crops they have been able to grow on the mountain dramatically change the quality from edible to decent.  
  
Kasumi activates a small mechanical device and sets it on the couch between them. “A sound dampener Grandfather— my caretaker’s father showed me how to build. If it works, that should make it difficult for anyone to eavesdrop.”  
  
In between mouthfuls of stew, Kaelyn fills her in on Victoria and Jule.  
  
“That’s just— I mean, Faraday and DiMA wanted to save her life and that’s good, but look at her. She’s in constant pain. It can’t be right that they wiped away her memories without asking her! Who does that?”  
  
“The Institute,” Kaelyn answers by rote. “The Railroad does too, but only with a synth’s consent.”  
  
Kasumi shivers and draws her knees up to her chest. “I’ve only heard rumors about the Railroad. People here have mixed opinions on them.”  
  
Kaelyn can’t help the defensive note in her tone. “The Railroad does what they can with what little they have. Without their sacrifices, the Institute would still be a threat.”  
  
Resting her chin on her knees, Kasumi asks, “Why would the Railroad wipe a synth’s memories?”  
  
“It’s offered to synths, along with facial reconstruction, so they can blend in among humans more easily. There’s so much to learn about the Wasteland and stumbling clueless around the Commonwealth can easily get you killed. But it’s optional.”  
  
Kasumi is quiet, her gaze distant. “And the Institute?”  
  
She closes her eyes. “Synths deemed ‘faulty’—like those who show too much personality—were wiped to keep them pliant.” Kaelyn spots movement in her peripheral, her gut clenching. As her fingers twitch on Deliverer’s grip, she recognizes the figure as Jule slinking along the wall, hiding behind crates where she can. Kaelyn forces herself to relax and pretends to ignore Jule.  
  
Until there’s a _psst_ from behind the couch.  
  
Glancing over her shoulder, Kaelyn murmurs, “Is there anything I can do, Jule?”  
  
Jule giggles. “You said I had options, right? And shit, this is stupid, but what else can I do? You said you can take me off this island. If you screw me over too, well, it can’t be worse than this.”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t waste her breath on assurances Jule won’t believe. “If that’s what you want, then yes. We can leave tomorrow. Head to Far Harbor while we arrange transport to the Commonwealth. From there you can find the Railroad or make your own way.”  
  
The next morning, Jule says her goodbyes, which encompass Cog and no one else. But there’s no getting out the front door without alerting DiMA. Faraday stands beside him. When Jule refuses to even look at Faraday, his gaze turns to Kaelyn, full of censure.  
  
“I regret that you feel the need to leave, Jule,“ DiMA says. “Know that you will always be welcome in Acadia if you change your mind. Please be safe out there.”  
  
Jule scuffs her sneakers on the ground. “Yeah, well, let’s just get this over with.”  
  
On the way out, Kaelyn meets Chase’s eye, and they share nod. She keeps it to herself when she notices a black-coat shadow slink out of Acadia’s car park after them. The road is quiet and the Fog is rolling. Kaelyn takes the lead—she had contemplated giving her power armor to Jule for protection, but Valentine had reminded her exactly who is and isn’t Fog proof. Still, they make it to Far Harbor with only a few teeth marks chipping the paint job on the armor.  
  
Kaelyn parks her power armor in a bay the Mariner lets her use, then loosens the knots securing Victoria’s steamer trunk to her armored back. “The diary, the trunk and everything inside it— it was Victoria’s. Yours, if you want it.”  
  
Jules laughs. “Great! What good is a trunk full of trinkets and a book when my head is _killing_ me?!”  
  
Walking through The Last Plank and its drunk patrons with a heavy trunk under Kaelyn’s arm is like throwing a bowling ball but hoping it doesn’t hit any pins. But she does notice Valentine spending a moment too long watching her biceps flex, and that sends a skitter of warmth through her belly.  
  
After getting Jule settled—and thanking her lucky stars motel rooms aren’t nearly as expensive as they used to be—Kaelyn drops into a seat beside Valentine in the common room. She pinches the bridge of her nose and draws in a thin breath. “I did not make any friends today.”  
  
Valentine rests his hand on the back of her neck, keeping her jacket collar up so the cold metal doesn’t touch her skin. She leans into his touch and pretends it’s solely because she’s had a hard day. “I don’t think I need to tell you that justice is more important than friends. Jule had a right to the truth. All the good intentions in the world can’t outweigh bad methods.”  
  
Kaelyn presses her forehead into one palm. Shaun’s lined, weary face flashes across her mind and she cringes. Valentine retracts his hand.  
  
She wants to tell him, no, it wasn’t him, but the words won’t come. So she sighs instead. “And learning the truth broke her. Can’t say I wish that on anyone else.” Kaelyn shivers, drawing her jacket more tightly around herself. “After seeing all this, I feel the need to state that if I’m ever so badly injured the only way to fix me is to erase my memories, just let me go.”  
  
Valentine lifts an eyebrow—or rather, his face shifts in the human expression even though he has no hair on his face. “Getting your will in order?”  
  
“Nick, please.”  
  
He presses his lips into a tense line, eyes darting over her face. Several moments drip in the distance before he can say, “I hear ya, doll. If... if it ever comes to that, I’ll keep with your wishes.”  
  
A short exhale. “Thank you. That said, I’m human. I don’t know if it would ever work like that for me but— I’m just covering my bases here.” No matter the voice in the back of her head suggesting she stay here, lean against Valentine’s side and let him tell her it’ll be all right, she can’t bring herself to drop the burden. She rises to her feet.  “I need to get a message to the Railroad.”  
  
Captain Avery has a long-range radio she even allows Kaelyn to borrow without charge. Kaelyn watches the ultramarine-gray ocean out the window while Avery climbs the stairs to give her a measure of privacy. It takes almost ten minutes to find the right frequency and clean up the white noise, then another twenty before her intended recipient tunes in. “Hey, Ellie. This is Kaelyn. Don’t panic, Nick’s fine. I was hoping you could do me a favor?”  
  
_“Good to hear your voice. It’s one of those drawn-out cases, isn’t it? What do you need?”_  
  
“I’m not certain we aren’t being eavesdropped, so pardon the cryptic message: can you ask Piper to find what’s at the end of the Freedom Trail and tell them there’s a package ready to be picked up from Far Harbor? And if they’re nice, Kenji might lend them a boat.”  
  
_“I’ll let Piper know. Say hi to Nick for me, and remind him to wash his fedora once in a while. He might not sweat, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to do his laundry like everyone else.”_  
  
Kaelyn almost smiles. “I’ll pass the message along. Thanks, Ellie.”

—

Kaelyn and the Mariner are going over the details of the newest Hull upgrades in the lamplight when there’s a call of _boat incoming!_ Making her way to the jetty, Kaelyn meets Valentine halfway; they watch the small boat ease up to the pier and toss a rope out to the mooring. Captain Avery secures it while Allen just scowls and cocks his assault rifle.  
  
Valentine says, “Looks like Allen’s rolling out the welcome wagon. Let’s go before someone gets shot.”  
  
Who else steps off the boat but Deacon. The man is wigless today, his bald head covered by a thick beanie, and layered in several brine-stinking jackets as well as a parka.  
  
“More mainlanders?” Allen’s about to spit, but a sharp look from Avery stops him.  
  
Deacon spreads his arms. “I can tell from the warm reception that you haven’t sent a postcard because you’re having too much fun out here!”  
  
Avery looks from Deacon to Kaelyn to Valentine. “I take it you know each other?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Don’t worry, Captain. He won’t be staying long. I needed a few things from home and Deacon was up for a road trip.”  
  
“Have you seen any roads on the ocean, my friend? Because I sure haven’t. But I brought the teddy bear you asked for.” Hefting a lumpy bag over his shoulder, he adds, “I hope you’re buying me dinner for this. Your crap weighs a ton.”  
  
Satisfied—or possibly dissatisfied—Deacon isn’t a threat, Allen stomps back to his store.  
  
Avery says, “I’d say welcome to Far Harbor, but you’ve arrived at a delicate time. Your friends can give you the details, but know that while Harborfolk aren’t big on hospitality, you’re free to stay as long as you don’t cause trouble.”  
  
Deacon gives her a winning smile. “Me? Trouble? Never.”  
  
Kaelyn has to disguise her snort as a cough, covering her mouth with her hand to conceal the smile that trembles on her lips. Avery pins Deacon with a final look, then returns to the wall with her hunting rifle slung over one shoulder.  
  
Turning to Kaelyn and Valentine, Deacon cocks an eyebrow. “Did you miss me? You did, didn’t you?”  
  
“Sure, we missed you real bad when we needed someone to play bait for a fog crawler,” Valentine says, but there’s a warmth to it as his lips tug up at the corners. Kaelyn may or may not be distracted by his smile.  
  
“Mr Valentine, you flatter me.” But while Deacon’s returning smirk remains firmly in place, he watches Kaelyn out of the corner of his eye.  
  
Upon entering The Last Plank, Mitch bequeaths Deacon with a free beer and they find a quiet corner where they won’t be overheard. From a glance, most of the patrons aren’t on their first round, but Kaelyn finds the loudest song in the jukebox for added insurance. The grimy windows behind Deacon’s head offer an unexpectedly accurate portrayal of the dusk outside: hazy blobs of crosshatched gray that fade to blue.  
  
Under the table, Deacon nudges his bag against Kaelyn’s leg. Lifting the flap, she finds a stash of fusion cores, rad-x and radaway, a pouch of caps, and clothes for Jule.  
  
Leaning his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand, Deacon asks, “So what’s the scoop?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Synths have formed a colony here up in the old observatory. Acadia.”  
  
“Sweet digs. Do you think we could make contact with them, maybe send some packages their way?”  
  
Kaelyn cuts a hand through the air. “Hold that thought. The island is unstable right now. The Children of Atom and Far Harbor are at each other’s throats. As for Acadia—well, things are a little complicated right now.”  
  
Deacon raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a ringing endorsement.”  
  
“Long story short, the reason I asked you here was to get Jule off the island. She was grievously injured in an accident and Faraday, the doctor, he— he wiped her memory without her consent. He saved her life, but botched the mem job and now Jule suffers from chronic head pain.”  
  
Deacon whistles. “Heavy.”  
  
They trade gossip over salty mirelurk stew, learning that the Railroad are as overworked as ever tracking down lost synths, but have had only a few run-ins with Institute survivors. During Kaelyn’s turn to share, Deacon is particularly entertained by the robobrain elite in Vault 118. When Valentine fills him in on DiMA and their possible relation, he claps Valentine on the arm and suggests showing DiMA the agency.  
  
Valentine shakes his head, looking rather shell-shocked. “That’s putting the cart before the horse. Give a man room to get used to the idea first.”  
  
With few rooms to spare in the inn, Kaelyn and Deacon lie back-to-back in one of the rickety beds. At least tonight she doesn’t have to worry about needing extra blankets; he’s always better than a hot water bottle. If Deacon actually sleeps she doesn’t know, even though she hardly has a restful night herself. In the morning, Kaelyn knocks on Jule’s door while Deacon waits behind her shoulder. A quick, quiet rap.  
  
Muffled, but audible: “What the fuck do you want?”  
  
“Jule, there’s someone here to meet you. It’s time to go.”  
  
After several dragging moments, the door opens. Jule peeps around the jam.  
  
Deacon gives her one of his winning smiles. “Hi, I’m Deacon. I’ll be your chauffeur and captain on our voyage today.”  
  
She blinks, the corners of her eyes scored from pain and fatigue. “Right. Let’s just get on with it.”  
  
After a quiet breakfast, Kaelyn and Valentine see them off at the docks. The streets—or jetties, rather—are dead in a way they aren’t at night. Only a lone disgruntled sentinel sits atop the Hull. While the sky is shrouded, the clouds burn molten silver through cracks in the gray near the horizon.  
  
Jule raises an arm to shield her eyes from the glare, an unfriendly giggle bursting on her lips. “Great. Just great. This is going to be great.”  
  
“Here. If you’ve got a headache, these might help.” Deacon hands her a spare pair of sunglasses.  
  
While she gives him a sharp look, she puts the glasses on nevertheless.  
  
At the boat, Kaelyn says, “Stay safe, Jule, and best of luck out there. For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry it came to this.”  
  
“Yeah. Thanks. I guess.” And with that, Jule steps into the boat, stumbling as the hull bobs in the water.  
  
Before Deacon can follow, Kaelyn catches his arm. “Take care of her.”  
  
“No sweat.” In a rare display of affection, Deacon touches her shoulder in return. “You better take care of yourself, too. We still have to start our band. Don’t you want your own groupies?”  
  
She can feel the weight of his gaze through his sunglasses. “You drive a hard bargain.” But she reaches up to squeeze his fingers, earning a smile before he lets go.  
Kaelyn and Valentine stand side by side on the pier, watching the boat’s frothy white trail as it sets south. The morning gale tears a shudder from her hide, and she leans into Valentine’s side. His arm comes around her, rubbing her back to generate friction.  
  
He rumbles, “Another problem to strike off the list. Now we need to finish preparing and find the Children of Atom. Whatever’s in DiMA’s memories isn’t something we can wait for someone else to find.”  
  
Aside from the multitude of mini disasters that have cropped up since they arrived, they also wanted time to learn the island before venturing into the Deep Fog. Kaelyn sighs, but it does nothing to ease the throbbing in her temples. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to mingling with them. If they can turn the Great War—the deaths of millions, maybe billions of people—into a thing to be worshiped, who knows what else they get up to.”  
  
What was it Piper had said once? In one of her lively tales about the perils of investigative journalism, she’d found a cabal of Children in the sewers under Bunker Hill and been captured. On the verge of being executed, she’d shouted: _Atom! He reveals Himself!_  
  
And the Children had bought it.  
  
“I know how I’m going to get in. I just need a good dose of rad-x beforehand.”  
  
Valentine’s chin rests against her temple. “I’m not sure I like DiMA’s plan.”  
  
She weasels an arm under his trench coat and around his waist. She’d forgotten how something like this feels. “It’s not the plan you don’t like, Nick. It’s that you know you can’t come with me inside.” Anything that can resist radiation is a ‘perversion’, according to the missionary they’d found wandering the forest. She and Valentine have already argued it out.  
  
He shifts his weight. “You have me there.”  
  
Kaelyn leans back enough to see Valentine’s face, puts on a smile. “Come on. With my track record, why are you worried?”  
  
It doesn’t ease the crinkles around his eyes. If anything, it deepens them. And for a moment she wonders if it’s a holdover from the original Nick, that he can contorts his expression in a flawless mimicry of human emotion. She wonders if DiMA has picked up the intricacies of human expression as part of his ‘learning by experience’ directive. Valentine presses his lips together in a thin line. “It’s a sign of affection, doll.”  
  
“Nick—” Kaelyn twists to face him as he turns his head to meet her eyes and somehow they end up with their bodies flush against each other, mere heartbeats away, his belt buckle pressing into her stomach. Her hands flutter to rest on his shoulders.  
  
Valentine’s eyes dart between hers, then his gaze drops to her mouth. He shifts as if about to swoop down, then pulls back.  
  
So she takes matters into her own hands. “Nick, I’d like to kiss you.”  
  
His deep chuckle vibrates through her chest. “I’d like that too, doll.”  
  
Curling her fingers around the back of his neck, she drags his mouth down to hers. The first thing she notices is how Valentine’s lips are cool in the chilly morning, but the thrill of it sends a shock of heat through her. Their kiss is light and, yes, tentative as she learns the shape of his mouth, how best to fit against him. His lips feel different to those of a human man, their texture smooth and rubbery. She has to tilt her head so she fits under the brim of his fedora; as she does so, his arm slides around her waist to hold her in place, deepening their kiss.  
  
She pulls back an inch to catch her breath and he pursues her for a second, quicker kiss.  
  
It takes far too long to remember they stand on a public jetty. “We should probably stop giving the neighbors a show.” Even so, she can’t bring herself to untangle from Valentine. If she does, the world might descend upon her again with its full weight.  
  
Somehow there’s a fresh glow in Valentine’s eyes when he says, “Guess we’d best get back to it. No rest for the wicked, as they say.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've rewritten this three times and I give up.

There’s never any shortage of work around Far Harbor to keep oneself busy. After clearing the _MSS Azalea,_ Kaelyn accompanies the Mariner’s salvage crew to the wreck, doubling as both guard and pack mule. After three and a half days of dragging sheet metal across a bogged island, her shoulders scream even through the power armor. Then when all the scrap has been dumped in the street, Kaelyn can’t just leave all the work to the Mariner.  
  
If she doesn’t see much of Valentine in this time, well, it’s just a coincidence. He would be entirely too distracting with his smooth voice and his golden eyes and his clever mouth. She can still feel the imprint of his lips against hers.  
  
Realizing that she’s staring at the wall, Kaelyn shakes herself out. It’s fortunate the Mariner can’t afford to waste tools, else she may have dropped a hammer on Kaelyn’s head for spacing out. At first they work quietly side-by-side, speaking only to relay instructions or swear at the construction. Even so, their silent companionship something of a balm on Kaelyn’s turbulent thoughts.   
  
_I_ kissed _my_ best friend. _Why on earth did I think that was a good idea? I shouldn’t have started what I can’t finish._  
  
After several hours of work, Kaelyn and the Mariner stand at the gates, looking up at their handiwork. “Good. Let’s get started on the upper reinforcements. Better get it done before...” The Mariner trails off, then hurriedly stuffs her tools in her belt. “Hauling all this scrap up the stairs is going to be a pain.”  
  
Kaelyn raises an eyebrow. “What’s the time limit? You aren’t part of the anti-Children of Atom lobby.”  
  
The Mariner shifts on her feet. Her gaze turns distant, inward, then she nods to herself. “Guess you’ve lent a hand more often than those louts who call themselves Harborfolk. I have a—condition. The terminal kind. No cure.”  
  
That would be a reason. Kaelyn hides her wince. _You had to pry, didn’t you?_ “I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”  
  
“Ah, I’ve shed my fill of tears on this. As for how you can help...” The Mariner gives a sharp exhale. “You’re already doing it. The Hull needs to be as secure as possible. After I take the Long Walk, I don’t know if anyone else around here will maintain it.”  
  
As the Mariner predicted, getting sheets of metal up the rickety staircases is an exercise in frustration. However, Kaelyn relishes the distraction even if her hands burn through their thick leather gloves. This time, between huffing and hammering, the two women share stories.  
  
“—and my aunt was no fool. She steered us away from that horrible red glow. But plenty of other ships haven’t been so lucky. The Red Glow has claimed dozens of ships over the years.” The Mariner heaves out a breath, then another, and Kaelyn doesn’t realize anything is wrong until she sways dangerously.  
  
Kaelyn grabs her shoulder in case she tips over the battlements. “I think we’ve done enough for today. You should take it easy.”  
  
The Mariner shakes her off. Pressing her lips into a thin line can’t hide her sudden paleness. “As long as I’ve got the strength, I can’t waste it. On this side of the road, well, how can I sit back through what good time I have left? Three weeks from now, I might not be able to do this.”  
  
Kaelyn looks down at the screwdriver in her hands. Watches it turn over between her fingers without feeling herself direct her hands. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned out here, it’s that no time is guaranteed.”  
  
“So we’d better get to living, right? While we still can.” After a beat, the Mariner starts packing away her tools. “Off with you, now. It’s getting too dark to work by, and I’d rather be on the other side of the Hull this time of day.”  
  
Not ready for the heady pungency of The Last Plank, Kaelyn wanders to the end of the dock, past the nook Small Bertha has carved out for herself and her brother.  
  
There’s a creak of wooden planks and a small voice calls: “Ma’am, I have to talk to you.” Bertha stands in the broken doorway, scuffing one foot on the ground. “I got fourteen and a half caps. I want to hire you.”  
  
Kaelyn needs a moment to process that, but Bertha’s pinched mouth and hopeful eyes convince her this is legitimate. “I'm happy to help, Bertha, but you keep your caps.” She looks the girl over, noticing how scrawny she is, barefoot and bedraggled, shivering in the cold. “How about we find somewhere to talk details?”  
  
They sit on the pier with their legs dangling over the edge. Kaelyn takes moment to ensure the laces on her boots are tight. Bertha is a small, hunched bundle of rags beside her. The sight of her bony hands rubbing over her arms, trying to generate heat, twists something behind Kaelyn’s breastbone. Digging through her bag, Kaelyn finds an unopened bottle of Vim! Captain’s Brew. Breaking the seal, she takes a sip to prove it’s safe before holding it out to Bertha.  
  
The girl’s naked shock, her eyes wide on the purple soda, hurts even more somehow. Needing both hands to grasp the bottle, she takes a large mouthful and splutters. “It’s bubbly!”  
  
“Drink too fast and it’ll go up your nose.” Kaelyn points a thumb over her shoulder, towards Bertha’s shelter. “Would your brother like some too?”  
  
Bertha eyes her, wariness flashing over her face, but then she coughs again and wipes her nose. Her gaze falls to the bottle of Vim!. “Wait here.”  
  
She leads Tony to the end of the pier, murmuring to him, and the three of them sit passing the soda between them. Kaelyn keeps her sips small while the kids, to her delight, guzzle as much as they can in one go. They don’t, however, fight over it like Kaelyn and Martin would have. She doesn’t know how to feel about Bertha keeping a hand on Tony’s back, making sure that for her every gulp he gets two.  
  
Bertha swings her legs back and forth in the empty air, watching the spindrift. “Harborfolk don’t belong on this dock. If we keep clinging here, we’ll bleed out and die. To get better, we need land. Echo Lake Lumber Mill has power lines that connect to the old wind farm. If you clear the land, Harborfolk can set up Fog condensers. Make it safe. From the Fog, at least.”  
  
This isn’t the job Kaelyn imagined taking on for fourteen and a half caps. She had avoided Bertha after the first time the girl chased her away from Tony, and the other Harborfolk had warned her to keep her distance. But now Kaelyn realizes how badly they’ve all misjudged this girl.  
  
“You have a lot of information about all this.” As well as an uncannily accurate assessment of the situation. Despite their name, Harborfolk are not suited to dockside living.  
  
Bertha fusses over Tony, tucking his blanket more tightly around his scrawny shoulders. “My father was a mechanic. A good one. Before the Fog took him.”  
  
“I’m sorry.” If the children are here alone, it’s the only logical end to their father’s story. But then it occurs to her that ‘taken by the Fog’ may mean something other than death. She doesn’t ask. Instead, she says, “You know, you’re quite a remarkable girl.”  
  
Bertha shrugs. Her chin juts glumly. “If you say so. I just don’t want this pier to kill what’s left of my kin.”  
  
“Most people will talk about how bad it is without ever trying to fix it.” Before the end of the world, before her son had been kidnapped, Kaelyn had counted among them. “But you’ve obviously put a lot of thought into this plan. If it works, it’ll go a long way to helping around here. That’s more than most people on this dock can say they’ve done. And you’re doing this while looking after your brother.”  
  
Kaelyn can’t imagine raising a child in the post-war world.  
  
Bertha shrugs again. “Not much else to do around here but think. I know the money’s a joke, but if my friends can resettle I’m sure they’d do anything for you. And owe you big. Please help.”  
  
“I will, Bertha.” Kaelyn is also going to make sure the kids are properly fed and have a pair of shoes each. Maybe find some books or comics for them, too.  
  
Even though she insists they take the rest of the bottle, Bertha doesn’t quite believe it’s okay until Kaelyn opens her satchel to reveal four more bottles clinking inside. The children retreat to their corner, heads together, their whispers lost in the rattling wind.  
  
Rising to her feet, Kaelyn stretches and decides to stay out here for a few minutes longer. She leans against one of the pier poles and rests her chin on her hands. Her wedding ring is cold against her finger. The timber under her palms is bleached and cracked, yet it remains sturdy against the murky gray tide that rolls beneath the dock. Black rocks glimmer below, visible one moment and gone the next as the ocean rocks in its immutable rhythm. At least some things in this world haven’t changed.  
  
If Kaelyn presses her fingers to her mouth, she can still feel Valentine’s kiss.  
  
“There you are.”  
  
Kaelyn starts. _Of all the times to..._ “Valentine.”  
  
He halts beside her, leaning on the railing in a fluid motion that pulls his coat tight across his shoulders. She doesn’t miss that he stands downwind with the cigarette that’s propped between two fingers. From this angle, she notices a new scar below his ear and the way his jaw works as he toys with the cigarette.  
  
Kaelyn looks down at her hands. At the gold band that still graces her finger.  
  
“So, is there any particular reason you’ve been avoiding me?”  
  
Dammit.   
  
“I haven’t been.” The moment the words leave her mouth, she realizes what a mistake her knee-jerk denial is.  
  
Valentine plucks his cigarette from between his lips, giving her an arch look. “Sure, sure. Just like you didn’t tense up the moment you heard me coming. Nice try, but no cigar.”  
  
The burn of embarrassment is deserved. Once again, she’s thankful her face is too dark to show a blush. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just—needed space to think, but I shouldn’t have left you hanging like that. Not my finest moment.”   
  
Valentine reaches out to her. She looks down to where he clutches her wrist, his pale fingers tight like a pearly bracelet, and he drops her arm. “Since we’re here now, it would be real swell if you could put a synth outta his misery.”  
  
“‘Out of his misery’?” she repeats. “What’s that supposed to mean? You haven’t done anything wrong, Nick.”  
  
“You sure about that? Because all I know is that you kissed me and haven’t looked me in the eye since.” He watches the sea as he says it.  
  
When put that way, he has a point. Kaelyn drops her head. _What a mess._ “I’m sorry, Nick. This whole time, right from when we first met, you’ve been nothing short of saintly in all the support you’ve given me. But right now I— you deserve better than babysitting me.”  
  
“So you’re saying it was a mistake?” Valentine pulls back, just slightly, chagrined. “Guess I shouldn’t have ever thought otherwise.”  
  
Kaelyn cocks her head. There’s something about his manner that’s—downcast. “Why? Are you disappointed?”  
  
“I don’t think it’s a secret that I’ve grown fond of you after all the trouble we’ve gotten into together.” A quick, rueful smile, scant shades lighter than the gray dusk around them. “But I’m a synth, and an old one at that. I shouldn’t have presumed anything.”  
  
“What?” She blinks, trying to track his line of thought. When it clicks, she rushes to say, “No, that’s not what I mean. I care for you, Valentine. As a friend, and more. It doesn’t matter to me you’re a synth.” She shakes her head. “Of all the things to worry about, I haven’t even gotten to that point on the list.”  
  
“Really?” Valentine casts over her with a skeptical eye. The last embers of his cigarette flare and die in the wind. “You never once stopped and considered that ours is the kind of relationship that would draw more than raised eyebrows? So if that’s not it, what’s twisting you in knots?”  
  
She covers her wedding ring with her other hand. “Sometimes it feels like a lifetime has passed. Sometimes it feels like yesterday I was at home, playing housewife.”  
  
“Kaelyn—”  
  
“My son,” she says, louder, cutting him off. “You know what he called Nate? Collateral damage. I hate to think what he would have said about you. Shaun couldn’t see synths as people, even though he proclaimed himself to be their father. But he’s not even here to argue with because I—” Kaelyn stops, sniffles. Tilts her head back to hide the tears. “I miss him. I miss them both.” She looks down. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.”  
  
“Might be a touch awkward.” Despite everything, sympathy gentles his expression. “But you can’t help what you feel.”  
  
Kaelyn swallows around the lump in her throat. “Does it bother you that I’ve been so… hung up over Shaun, Nate, everything?”  
  
“You don’t stop loving someone just because they’re gone. I certainly don’t have grounds to protest.” Valentine bows his chin, just a fraction, tilting his fedora low over his eyes. This time there’s no grimy street light to backlight him.  
  
“Jenny?”  
  
“Jenny.”  
  
Kaelyn’s hand creeps out to cover his own. The steel one; it’s wiry and cold and twitches at her touch. They stand together as the moon peeks out from behind its gauzy veil of cloud. The water ripples like a coat of crushed silk in time with the crash of water on the rocks. A shudder starts deep in Kaelyn’s gut, and she wonders if Valentine can feel the cold.  
  
She draws in a deep, shivering breath. “Here’s how it is: I lost my family. I lost everything I had before the war. And I haven’t recovered from that. It’s not fair to make you play second fiddle to my various traumas.” A glance down, and the glint of her wedding ring draws her attention. “Nate would— would want me to be happy. As I’d want if our roles were reversed. But I think happiness is still a long way off. If I— I even deserve it.”  
  
“Now look here.” Valentine grips her chin with his steel hand, careful yet firm, and raises her eyes to his. “Anyone who would hold a grudge against your well-being is not someone you should be listening to. Doesn’t matter who they are, even if it’s your boy—or yourself.”  
  
That one hits a little too close to home. “He was my son and he’s _gone.”_  
  
Valentine soldiers on, but there’s a new tension in his frame. “I’ve a better idea of what you’ve lost than any other person alive. I see it on your face every day. But the Commonwealth is free of its bogeyman thanks to you. Don’t give up on yourself just yet.”  
  
The dregs of her anger abandon her, tossing themselves into the sea. “Because you ask so nicely, Nick. And this is exactly what I mean by making you play second fiddle.”  
  
At least Valentine gives this some honest consideration. She remains quiet, giving him all the time he needs to think. Being a synth, his processing speed outstrips that of a human, and several second later, he says, “If you’re holding back for my sake, you don’t have to. Been with you every step of the way and I ain’t scared off now.”  
  
He still wants her. In another moment she might be able to properly appreciate that sentiment. Right now, she closes her eyes and rubs circles into her temples. “I’m trying to be noble here, Nick.”  
  
He chuckles and her stomach, traitor that it is, flutters. “I’m not asking for nobility. As long as you try to cope, I think I’ll manage.”  
  
Is there even any point fighting anymore? Kaelyn lets go of all her recalcitrance, every hesitation, and feels dangerously weightless. The grief’s still there, lurking behind Shaun’s face, but for now she can instead see Valentine’s affectionate expression. “I can’t give you any promises besides that one.”  
  
This thing between them is too new, too tender, for a name. Valentine covers her hand with his other hand—the flesh one—and she covers that to complete the hand sandwich.  
  
“For now, doll, that’s enough.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Your Geiger counter doing cartwheels, too?”  
  
Kaelyn grimaces, even though he can’t see it behind her visor. Going inland—which doesn’t mean escaping the ocean, thanks to rising sea levels—has been a hazardous journey, with yet more Fog and more things to lurk in it. Here the trees are dead and stunted, their leaves stripped away in the sickening swirl of radiation, their trunks leaning in the stiff angles of rigor mortis. They died too quickly to mutate as other plants on the island have.   
  
Despite Longfellow’s every warning, there’s no way to truly prepare for the pockets of Deep Fog. Kaelyn’s Geiger counter clicks in alarm that she leave her power armor at her peril. Rad-x has left a film on her teeth that she feels when she swipes her tongue around her dry mouth. When she thinks to look, the Deep Fog has a green cast.  
  
It’s no Glowing Sea, but arrogance will prove lethal.  
  
A radstorm creeps in as they reach the Children of Atom’s commune, its sickly green light filtering through the Fog with every flash of lightning. The entrance to the old submarine base has been cordoned off into a crude courtyard, marked by barricades and litter. Banners that feature swirling black designs flutter in the encroaching wind, heralding Atom’s questionable glory.  
  
Kaelyn checks her Geiger counter one last time and sighs. Nothing to be done for it. Still, her fingers hover over the eject button, hesitant, until she musters the willpower to break the seals. At last, her power armor unfurls and a huff of cloying swamp air curls about her. Valentine’s hand presses into her back, steadying her as she steps out. True to his word, he’d insisted on accompanying her as far as he can.   
  
His yellow eyes barely jump out of the amber-cast Fog. “Ready?”  
  
“As I’ll ever be.”  
  
Leaving Valentine with her power armor, Kaelyn heads towards the courtyard, schooling her expression to flawless neutrality even as her skin crawls. The first time she had ever seen the Children of Atom was in the crater at the heart of the Glowing Sea. Mother Isolde had been wary, welcoming—and wacky. That they could stand at ground zero of a nuclear blast, the blast that ended her world, and call it _glorious_ sickened her more than radiation ever could.  
  
These Children are a different breed. Kaelyn steps into the courtyard to witness a test of faith where one adherent must shoot the other to be permitted back inside. Standing back and watching leaves a poor taste in her mouth, but she can’t even betray her ambivalence, let alone intercede.   
  
There is no forgetting these people are cultists.  
  
After the execution is done, the Grand Zealot turns his attention to her.  
  
To enter the Nucleus, she must first pass an initiation test. Of course, Grand Zealot Richter frames it as an experience granted to those Atom considers worthy—and has ominous warnings about ‘those who don’t return’.  
  
At first Kaelyn wonders if even finding the spring is half the damn test; there are a large number of irradiated waterholes on the island. Richter gave her only the vaguest of directions, proclaiming that she’ll know it when she sees it. At least she’s back in her power armor, but the comfort is cold. Unlike other parts of the island, this place is so otherworldly Kaelyn is jolted by surprise whenever they come across a road or power line. It’s easy to forget there was ever a time before radiation ruled the land.  
  
They skirt around the banks of the lake; about three-quarters of the way, a yellow glow through the trees lures Kaelyn inland, and she understands what Richter meant.   
  
A sickly yellow pool huddles in front of a small spring where water bubbles free, cresting over the rocks. Poles strung with glowing lights—at a second glance, lightbulbs half-filled with toxic water—stand in uneven intervals around the pond. Barrels of toxic waste sit like fat pillars half-sunk into the muck, and there are small offerings left at the edge of the rocks. The water itself is a brew of witches’ oils: molten sulfur with a roiling rainbow film, its slick texture without ripple. A tiny mud path winds through the pool to the spring.  
  
“If it’s a spring, the water should be coming out of the ground, right?” Her voice is hushed.  
  
“That doesn’t mean it’s safe, doll. Especially not in this neck of the woods. It might be free of mud, though.”  
  
Kaelyn mutters, “Not helping, Valentine.”  
  
Drawing in a deep breath, she detaches from her protection. She rifles through her bag to swallow two more rad-x pills, but it doesn’t settle her nerves. Her hair curls around her neck in the heavy damp as metallic thunder booms in the distance.  
  
When she reaches the edge of the water, Valentine strides past her to block the path. Planting his hands on her shoulders, he fixes her with golden eyes. Worried eyes. “Are you sure about this?”  
  
“Just... don’t let me fall into the water. I don’t know if I took enough rad-x to negate _that.”_  
  
Valentine withdraws slowly, reluctantly, granting her access to the path. Kaelyn takes small steps, her balance precarious on the sucking mud path. His gaze is heavy on her back. The water waits around her, swallowing any stray flecks of dirt that crumble away under her feet. One slip and she’ll never surface again. Tucking her gloves into her belt, Kaelyn cups her hands under the water at the spring’s source. It’s neither glowing nor muddy, which is encouraging.  
  
She takes one sip and gags.  
  
The water fills Kaelyn’s mouth with its rancid taste, closing her throat, leaving a film on her teeth. She doubles over, one hand shooting out to the rocks for balance as she coughs and splutters. Her throat burns as what little water she managed to swallow crawls down her esophagus. The rock is wet and sticky and warm under her hand; she flexes her fingers experimentally as the air changes.  
  
Another boom of thunder, simultaneously closer and farther away. She looks up and the sky is pure green. Atop the waterfall, the Fog coalesces into an apparition.   
  
_Follow._  
  
So she does.  
  
A shadow lunges from her right but she jumps away to pursue the figure. The apparition never fully materializes, their edges blurring more the harder she tries to make them out. While they have a rolling gait, they glide above the ground; tiny black tendrils curl out from their edges to hook on grass strands.  
  
Swampy green-gray light suffuses the forest with an unearthly glow. A herd of raddoes rest under a copse of trees, their hides stippled with pulsing green. A radstag stands by the road, arching his proud necks. The figure brushes a thick tendril along the radstag’s two noses and he snorts, lowering his heads. In a flash of lightning, the figure is illuminated and they’re at last recognizable as a woman.  
  
 _Atom’s realm. Children’s land._  
  
The voice shivers through the air; it crawls under Kaelyn’s skin. The shade darts away, her form a pillar of gray against the cloying yellow beams that suffuse the Fog, and Kaelyn is compelled to follow. Her heart pounds under her skin, in time with her loud footsteps, in time with the woman’s laugh.  
  
As quickly as the shade sped up, she slows until Kaelyn can almost reach out to touch her. Kaelyn gasps, “This— this can’t be real.”  
  
The woman watches her with depthless eyes. One gnarled finger touches Kaelyn’s breastbone. _Within._  
  
She chokes at the contact; the spot burns, itching through her skin to her heart. The sky above burns green.  
  
With a whisk of Fog and the impression of a smirk, the shade leads on. The Fog moves differently—or maybe the shade moves differently within it. She never disappears in the oily haze, even as her edges refuse to be defined, and when she steps off the road Kaelyn doesn’t hesitate to follow. Somewhere in the distance there’s a woman sobbing, crying out between low rolls of thunder. The woman stops at the edge of a clearing, and past the treeline is a pre-war construction. A relic of a foreign time.  
  
She points. _There._   
  
The shade suddenly stands beside Kaelyn without having ever moved. Her features are barely-present, ever-shifting, unmoored from the constraints of flesh. But there’s something recognizable in her terrible visage, something that speaks to the grieving depths of Kaelyn’s heart.  
  
The shade tilts her head. _Go._  
  
So Kaelyn does. Shapes detach themselves from the ground, brushing so close by she can feel their lumpy skin, and launch themselves at another blocky shadow. As her hand curls around the handle, she looks back. The shade stands atop the hill, watching her with burning eyes.  
  
 _Preserve. Bring them peace._  
  
The words burn in her skull. She presses the heel of her palm to her brow but it doesn’t relieve the pressure building behind her eyes. The handle dips of its own accord and she falls over the threshold.  
  
The bunker—the _shrine,_ something in the back of her mind corrects—is cluttered with ruined books. Shelves and desks, pushed to the edges of the cramped space, are piled high with books salvaged from the ruins. Any and all space is occupied by papers and glass flasks cradled in sawed-open skulls. A place of worship, or a place of learning, or both. There’s a locked security gate and a working terminal, but the letters scrawling across the screen make Kaelyn’s head hurt. It takes several moments for them to resolve themselves into words.   
  
_PASSWORD REQUIRED._  
  
A warm draft curls around her chin, turning her head to the left. Pinned to the wall is a periodic table. Painted on the side of a bookshelf are the symbols for three elements:  
  
 _Mo_  
 _Th_  
 _Er_  
  
She traces the squares and white paint crumbles under her finger. It has to be significant somehow. Kaelyn almost doesn’t believe it when the terminal accepts MOTHER and grants her access. Trust a wacky cult to lock a computer then write the password on the wall.  
  
The security door clicks open, permitting her access to the altar. Atop it rests a crude statuette carved from wood, circled by glowing flasks. Kaelyn runs her finger over the icon, from the crown of its head to its sagging breasts to its rounded hips and thick belly. She knows what those signify; she’s seen them every morning in the mirror since she gave birth to Shaun.  
  
Kaelyn’s head grows heavier by the moment. Her blood pumps thick and sluggish through her veins, pounding in her temples. White stars bloom across her vision, and she reaches out for the nearest support. Leaning against the bench behind her, she pants and waits for the dizziness to subside.  
  
When it does, Valentine stands before her, his eyes gold and worried, and catches her in his arms. “Are you all right, doll?”  
  
Doubling over, she retches onto his shoes.

—

Valentine insists they stay put for the night and Kaelyn can’t protest. He parks her power armor in the only space available: in front of the altar. They drag one of the tables in front of the door; or rather, Valentine runs her off when she attempts to help, and Kaelyn leans against the nearest wall before she falls over.  
  
“That should keep the ferals out,” Valentine mutters.  
  
“Ferals?”  
  
He stops, raising an eyebrow in her direction. “You didn’t see ‘em? Don’t know why, but they were more interested in me than you.”  
  
She shivers. Wracking her brain, she tries to recall ever seeing feral ghouls on her journey. But then another detail strikes her. “How did you get here, Nick?”  
  
Now he looks concerned. “Followed you every step of the way. You... never answered when I called out.”  
  
A frown flickers across Kaelyn’s brow. “I never saw you. I was...”  
  
Valentine unfurls from where he leans against the table and raises two fingers to her cheek. Exerting only the faintest of pressure, he traces a path over the dip of her temple to her forehead, where he touches the furrow in her brow. “You were what, doll?”  
  
Closing her eyes, she leans into his touch. “I saw something, Nick. There was… a woman? She led me here.”  
  
Valentine cups her face in both hands, turning her this way and that. She cracks open her eyes to find his face inches from her own. “How about we check you out?”  
  
His hands dig into Kaelyn’s waist, almost enough to hurt, and he lifts her onto the table. He sorts through her satchel and withdraws the  IV bag of radaway. She slides her jacket from her shoulders and rolls up her sleeve. It takes two attempts for Valentine to stick the needle in her arm, then she holds it in place while he checks over every inch of her body for injury. He isn’t a medic by any stretch, but a cop of his experience inevitably collects some knowledge of wounds. He administers a stimpak anyway, to help ease her brewing headache.  
  
Valentine stands in front of her, and Kaelyn drops her head to his shoulder. It’s further down than she expects, given her perch. “I don’t know what I saw, Nick, but it was strange.”  
  
He hums thoughtfully. “Some kind of hallucinogen in the water, maybe?”  
  
“You think so?” She latches onto that explanation, something to make sense of the madness, some explanation that doesn’t involve ‘the radiation god is real’.  
  
His expression is gentle. “What else could it be, doll?”

—

Seven hours later, she’s throwing up again.  
  
Rain drums low and hard on the roof, forcing Valentine to check their little haven isn’t going to flood. When he’s finished shoving sacks in front of the door to absorb any encroaching water, he checks the time on her pip-boy again. Huddled in a corner with nausea curdling her belly, Kaelyn presses her forehead into the cold, damp concrete and waits to die. Dirt and slime coat her face but she’s beyond caring. She tugs Valentine’s coat up to her shoulders and curls into a tighter ball. This is different to her earlier sickness; _this_ is the fear of every worker ever exposed to radiation, preying on her mind with shudders and shakes.  
  
She just wants to sleep or wring out her stomach, whichever comes first.   
  
Valentine eases himself down beside Kaelyn, nudging away the bucket with his toe. His hands curl under her shoulders and he drapes her across his lap. She protests at first—puking on his trousers would be a real cap to the day—but he runs a hand along her back, tracing the curve of her waist, and she settles. After ensuring the bucket is in easy reach.  
  
Valentine cards a hand through her hair, his touch light and comforting. His fingers run along her scalp in small circles, first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. She can feel the difference between his polymer fingers and her own human skin. When he frees his hand, he inspects the two stray hairs that have pulled loose. “You don’t seem to be losing hair. A good sign.”  
  
But still he returns his hand to her hair, toying with the short ends. Kaelyn curls more firmly against him and waits for the nausea to subside. The hours pass in fits and starts and cramps, her body too pained for wakefulness but her mind too anxious for sleep.  
  
 _Is this how it ends? Am I going to get cancer from this? Is this what Richter meant by those who don’t return?_  
  
By the time her pip-boy proclaims it to be 7:24am, she still has her hair and internal organs in all the correct places. Kaelyn eases herself up and accepts a canister of water from Valentine, smearing grime on the bottle. Her first mouthful she swirls between her teeth and spits, while her next mouthful she gulps too fast, to the protest of her queasy stomach. She nibbles at mirelurk jerky, but only manages a few bites. Jaw aching, she wraps the jerky up and almost manges to slip it back into her satchel without Valentine noticing.  
  
Ignoring his pointed look, Kaelyn shakes herself out and searches for her weapons. “We should get back to the Nucleus.”  
  
Valentine disagrees. “If you’re going to infiltrate the Children, you need your wits about you.”  
  
Kaelyn can’t complain too loudly since Valentine loans her his shoulder as a pillow. He traces patterns along her skin with his fingertips, smoothing away the hours until the last of her headache eases. Only the stiffness of an unconventional sleeping position remains.  
  
When Kaelyn can keep down a decent meal, Valentine at last concedes that it would be wise to get moving. While prepping her power armor, she peers around its inert bulk to the shrine. The statuette sits on the altar, lit from below by the bottle lights that cast eerie shadows over its form. Struck by sudden inspiration, she finds a spare shirt to wrap the icon with care. It can serve as proof of her experience to Richter.  
  
The slick green haze from yesterday has faded, but rather than being washed clean from the storm, the air is heavy with radiation. Their walk to the Nucleus is quiet, since watching for toxic puddles and irradiated critters don’t make for good conversational opportunities. When the submarine base is in view, its banners beckoning all who heed Atom’s call, Kaelyn again hesitates before stepping out of her power armor.  
  
How much does she know about the Children of Atom, really? Enough to pass as an awed convert?  
  
Before Valentine lets her go, he touches his lips to her hair. “Watch your back in there. I’ll be nearby if you need me.”  
  
Thus bolstered, Kaelyn strides into the courtyard to prove to Richter she’s still alive.


	11. Chapter 11

Kaelyn sits with her heels under her thighs, eyes closed, while she is prepared. Richter himself escorted her inside to bequeath her into the care of her so-called ‘sisters’. Sister Mai heads the procession with a welcoming smile and inviting commands, and the other two women disperse around the shack to do as she bids.   
  
What Richter claimed was ‘more appropriate attire’ is a set of robes cut together from dark fabric and a strainer strapped to Kaelyn’s chest via a harness of electrical wires. Her old clothes have been dumped in a corner with her satchel, and she routinely checks on the spot to ensure her belongings haven’t been disposed of. But nothing, not even the wrath of a god nor the fury of a bomb, can make Kaelyn remove her wedding ring. Under her homespun robes hangs Nate’s own ring, clinking on the chain against his dog tags.  
  
Sister Mai takes Kaelyn’s hand and turns it up, clicking her tongue. She wrings out a washer and drags it through the grime caked on Kaelyn’s palm. The water is clean and warm and soothing, as are the hushed whispers of Sisters Patrice and Avila. Patrice sits on Kaelyn’s other side and mimics Mai’s motions with another cloth. Kaelyn’s fingers twitch and curl despite her best efforts.  
  
All the while, Confessor Tektus’s voice booms through the facility. “They are doomed, brothers and sisters. The people of Far Harbor need only peer out their windows to look upon the face of Atom Himself, given form in holy Fog. Yet no matter how inevitable Atom’s reign may be, they deny it!”  
  
“If you’ll hold still a minute, I’ll clean this up.” The lightest of touches tilt Kaelyn’s head, and Mai rubs the cloth in circles over her face. Sweat, dirt and bunker slime give way under her gentle insistence. The graze on Kaelyn’s cheek has since healed over, but she fights a flinch as the rough cloth abrades the spot. Her pulse trembles in her wrists.  
  
Richter had recognized the woman-shade Kaelyn spoke of. The Mother of the Fog. It shouldn’t be possible. And now Kaelyn is expected to present the icon to High Confessor Tektus himself.  
  
“After years of skulking in the shadows like whipped dogs, our purpose is clear, brothers and sisters!” From Mai’s little shack, they have a prime view of the submarine—referred to as the Vessel in these parts—where Tektus stands, arms flung high, his shouts resonating through the chamber.  
  
Mai sets out a kit of inks and fine brushes on the ground. “A little something to mark the occasion. I don’t know if you want anything permanent yet, and we don’t have time for that anyway. Close your eyes.”  
  
And so Kaelyn does. There’s a sound of a lid being unscrewed and tools shuffled, then Mai grips her chin again. The first brushstroke is sudden and cold, dragging a fine line of sticky ice along her cheekbone. Mai’s work is both deft and delicate, aided by steady hands.  
  
“Atom’s veil will roll down its streets, holy Fog cleansing the land of their heresy! And when we are finally granted Division, it will be as heroes!”  
  
Kaelyn presses her palms into her thighs and breathes carefully through her nose and very much regrets this plan.  
  
“Glory to Atom!”  
  
From all corners of the base: _Glory to Atom!_  
  
The very walls chant: _Glory to Atom!_  
  
“Are you ready, sister?” Maybe it’s Mai who speaks. Maybe it’s all of them.  
  
She forces herself to say: “I am ready to follow His path.”  
  
Mai nods. “Then it will be so.” Before Kaelyn can leave, Mai catches her shoulder and steps in close. “Look, it’s a lesson worth learning now. Trust is a big deal in this family. Our members need to know how to, hm, steer clear of trouble. Just stay on the High Confessor’s good side and you’ll be all right.”  
  
When Mai draws back the curtain, Richter himself waits at the doorway to escort Kaelyn to the Vessel. The submarine is suspended in dry dock, with a network of shacks grafted onto the catwalks around it. The chamber is vast, sound reverberating off the concrete, morphing into a persistent background drone.   
  
Reflections ripple and dance on the ceiling high above their heads; Kaelyn peers over the railing to find molten yellow water skulking at the bottom of the dock. It lights the chamber, inverting shadows, transforming what should be familiar into a thing of uncertainty. Bottles filled with more irradiated water dangle in strings from the shack rafters while evanescent fungal blooms spring out of the refuse piled in the corners.   
  
A rickety gangplank connects the catwalk to the Vessel, and Kaelyn picks every step with care before following Richter down the rusted ladder. Even with her patchy knowledge of military vessels, the interior is hardly recognizable as a war sub. Control panels crouch along the walls behind draped banners of Atom’s symbols, every flat surface swamped by skulls and bottle lights.  
  
High Confessor Tektus sits on a throne, hunched over with his chin in his fist like some contemplative statue of ancient Greece. His tattooed, papery face blends in against the gray-tan banner behind him. His headdress evokes the movement of the atom, of circling electrons. And the guards in all corners watch her every move with a contained zealousness. If she so much as twitches wrong, they will defend their leader to their last breath.  
  
Richter’s boot presses into the back of Kaelyn’s knee. A jolt rushes up her thighs when she hits the ground. She clutches the bundle to her chest, feeling the imprint of its head against her breastbone. Behind her, Richter says, “Confessor, I present to you a new believer, who has tasted the spring and seen Atom’s glory.”  
  
Tektus’s boots shift, and Kaelyn wonders how he hasn’t yet set the hem of his robes on fire given the cluster of candles that wallow at his feet. “Ah. I’d heard whispers of a new convert. Welcome, sister. Let me look at you.”  
  
Licking her lips—and fighting a grimace at the tang—Kaelyn tilts her chin so the ragged ends of her hair peel away from her face. She makes it as far as the tattooed hands that grip the armrests of his throne.   
  
Tektus chuckles, the sound rasping like sackcloth. “Shy, are we? No matter. Be not afraid, child, for we are all Atom’s devoted here.”  
  
In lieu of a response, Kaelyn unwraps the bundle and presents the icon to Tektus. “Confessor. When I drank from the spring, a woman guided me to this.”  
  
“Ah.” Intrigue twangs in his voice. Her mouth goes dry. “You saw the Mother of the Fog—Atom’s messenger. His prophet, if you will. How curious that she chose you for the honor. Many spend their entire lives wishing for such a sign.”  
  
A cold sweat breaks out on the back of her neck. “I cannot hope to unravel Atom’s will, Confessor. I don’t know enough to presume.”  
  
“None of us would be here but for the will of Atom, child.” Tektus leans back in his seat, his hands tightening into a white-knuckled grip on the armrests. “There are many who would squander Atom’s grace. You’ve been to Far Harbor, yes? Seen its barriers and its citizens’ blasphemous refusal to vacate what is clearly His domain? Tell me, child: what would you do with such a place?”  
  
A test. It has to be a test.  
  
Kaelyn bows her head in every image of a humble convert. In truth, it’s because she can’t risk him detecting the defiant resentment kindling behind her breastbone. “Forgive me, Confessor, but are you saying the Fog’s boundaries mark the extent of Atom’s domain?”  
  
“That is correct, child.” Tektus shifts more firmly in his throne.  
  
“Does the Fog not come and go? If it rolls back, would we not have to concede the land Atom sought to give Far Harbor?”  
  
Tektus snares her chin with a gnarled hand, his pointed nails digging into her skin, and drags her face up. From where she kneels, she’s reminded of her own vulnerability. Contempt glitters like black stones in his narrowed eyes. “You are new here, child, and had best learn quickly what it means to be Atom’s chosen. I entrust your education to your brothers and sisters. For only through unity will our family survive and, soon, thrive.”  
  
 _My family is dead,_ she thinks. “Yes, Confessor.”  
  
“Good. Go now.” With a final warning squeeze, he releases her and bids she stand.  
  
Kaelyn climbs the ladder and draws in a deep breath of the comparatively fresher air of the base. Before she can make her escape, Richter grabs her arm to halt her in her tracks. His eyes glimmer in the low yellow light with a canniness that is not to be underestimated. “Know this—we are all devoted servants of Atom here. Messenger or no, actions against the family will not be tolerated. Don’t presume rank or status because of the Mother.”  
  
Her mouth is dry. “Understood, Grand Zealot.”  
  
Richter holds her a moment longer. He nods once. “Welcome, sister.”  
  
There’s a celebratory feast, because of course there is. It takes several hours of cooking to prepare enough for the several dozen members of the commune, but that time is passed by teaching the most basic of prayers to Kaelyn. At the sound of a stick beating against a metal drum—only after Tektus has finished praising Atom—people move towards one of the shacks. Kaelyn follows the crowd to a communal eating area, where low-set tables have been pushed into three rows. Bottle lights are tucked away in corners of rooms, away from clumsy feet. Cushions, sometimes little more than bundles of cloth, are passed around to ease the discomfort of rickety floorboards.   
  
Being a religious retreat on a hostile island, the fare is simple. To make up for it, the gathering is a frenetic affair, with the Children shouting praises and trading gossip—and asking all sorts of questions of their new convert. Kaelyn picks at her food as radiation and stress curdle her stomach. She doesn’t want to know where the meal was prepared, either, given the general lack of cleanliness in the Nucleus. After describing the Mother of the Fog for the sixth time to awed and jealous sighs, she moves to the window to get some space, away from the cloying smells of greasy angler haunch and irradiated water.  
  
Someone else is already there, pools of yellow light highlighting his deep umber skin. He grunts when he sees her. “Yeah? I mean, glory to At— wait. You’re the new convert.”  
  
“That’s right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” _Note to self: ‘glory to Atom’ acceptable hello. ‘Yeah’ isn’t._  
  
He grunts again, softly. “Not a problem. You see Brother Devin? Sickly guy over there, praying by himself?”  
  
Kaelyn follows the thrust of his chin to one of the catwalks around the Vessel, where a man kneels. “I see him.”  
  
“Kid’s been on a fast. Long one. No food. Only irradiated water. Waiting for a sign from Atom. Most folks would say that’s real admirable, giving yourself to Atom like that. What do you think?”  
  
Kaelyn cocks her head. This man doesn’t seem like the other cultists here, even if his enquiry is far from idle. _It could be a test,_ a part of her warns. “I think that while it’s an honorable thing to devote himself so fully, he can’t serve Atom if he’s dead.”  
  
He tilts his head, an assessing glimmer in his black eyes. “Just so. Everyone else here thinks what Devin’s doing is brilliant, but he’s going to kill himself. He won’t listen to me anymore, but if there’s a chance you could get through to him, I’ve gotta ask you to try.”  
  
Be careful. _It could be a test._ “I’ll speak to him.”  
  
“Oh, thank you. Just do it quick. He’s starting. To look—bad.”  
  
Unlike most organized militias, most of the guards—zealots, they call themselves—halt their shift for the evening meal. Only the entrance guards are fortified with doubled numbers. This makes it simple enough for Kaelyn to slip down the stairs, hoping that her identity isn’t immediately obvious to anyone looking out across the dock.  
  
“Excuse me? Brother Devin?”  
  
He starts. “What, I— oh, hello, sister.” He tries to find his feet and teeters dangerously.  
  
“No, no, it’s okay. You don’t have to get up.” Kaelyn hooks a hand under his armpit and eases him back onto his knees, following him down to sit beside him.   
  
The man who sent her is right: Devin’s bloodshot eyes are glassy and sunken in his eye sockets. His sallow skin gleams with sweat in the yellow light, save for the red splotches of fever that no tattoo can hide. His hair has fallen out in clumps, and what’s left is lank with grease.   
  
“If I can ask,”she begins, “what are you doing here?”  
  
He licks his lips. “My saving grace. Jet has been my crutch for many years. One day I was in the woods, polluting myself, when a radiant stag strode from the sky. It commanded me to return to the Nucleus, to leave behind my iniquities and give myself fully to Atom. For my dedication, Atom would send another messenger who would free me from my shackles once and for all. That, sister, is why I must wait.”  
  
Kaelyn raises an eyebrow, opens her mouth to speak, the pauses. “If you’ve been here for days, what makes you think you haven’t already endured the worst of the withdrawal?”  
  
Devin trembles. “Be— because I am weak and Atom is strong.”  
  
Biting back a sigh, Kaelyn slides her hands under Devin’s palms and lifts them. She makes a show of inspecting them both, brushing her fingers over the dark veins in his wrists. “Then I have good news for you. Your shackles are gone.”  
  
Devin gasps. He pulls his hands free to raise them before his eyes, turning them this way and that in the dim yellow light. “I can’t believe it—they’re gone? They’re really gone? You—you’re the messenger?” He chokes on a sob. “Oh, thank you, your Brilliance, thank you! And you, dear messenger, dearest sister—”  
  
“Shh, Devin.” Kaelyn presses a finger to his lips. They’re dry and cracked and bleeding. “This needs to stay between you, me and Atom.”  
  
“Of course, dearest messenger. If that is Atom’s will.” He stares down at his hands in wonder. “I’m free? I’m free!”  
  
“Now, are you ready to clean up and get some food?”  
  
“I need to give thanks to the most Radiant One, but—after. Yes, after.”  
  
Upon her return to the communal eating area, the man who requested her help glances at her but does not immediately accost her. After several toasts in honor of Atom, Tektus, and their new convert—in that order—Kaelyn pleads exhaustion to excuse herself from the table. It isn’t even a lie: her eyelids drag and her nerves have since frayed.  
  
“I’ll show her to a place to sleep,” the man says, to a nod from Tektus. They take several turns through the network of shacks before he asks, low and pointed, “Any luck?”  
  
“Devin will end his fast. But I don’t know if he’s strong enough to walk up the stairs, let alone take care of himself.”  
  
“I’ll look out for him. Thank you, friend. Sister. Here, pick a sleeping bag. My bed’s in the next room over if you need me. I owe you one. Name’s Ware, by the way.”  
  
Curling up to face the wall, Kaelyn clutches her belongings to her chest. She doesn’t sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, the art can also be found [over here.](http://eluvisen.tumblr.com/post/152762483261/art-for-chapter-eleven-of-what-makes-a-memory)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs to my readers in the US <3 Especially for those of you who are going to be affected (or already have been wtf America) by this outpouring of bigotry and hate. Please stay safe, everybody.

For the next three days, she divides her free time between joining Ware while he’s on guard, sharing a bottle of his home-made anti-rad brew, and assisting Mai in her duties. Mai is quick and good-humored and pleased to find another mechanical tinkerer, enlisting Kaelyn’s help to rework the decontamination hoses to spray irradiated water. Along the way, Kaelyn learns the layout of the shack network, not to mention faces and names.  
  
This she does between the long hours of worship. Kaelyn’s knees swell with the imprint of the catwalk beneath them, and Ware often hauls her to her feet afterward with a knowing look.  
  
He doesn’t mind her company—and better yet, he doesn’t ask questions. They sit together, maintaining their weapons, watching the other zealots on patrol. Ware imparts what advice he can, which usually amounts to some variation of ‘stand straight when the Grand Zealot’s watching’ and ‘don’t do what I did when I first arrived here’. His faith is humble, grounded, and entirely unlike anything Kaelyn has previously seen in the Children of Atom.  
  
Over those three days, Kaelyn plans. On one hand, a new recruit, unfamiliar with the rules and routines of the commune, might be forgiven for poking where she’s not supposed to. On the other, she remembers Richter’s loyalty test and the dangerous gleam in Tektus’s eyes.  
  
On the fourth day, Kaelyn braves the Vessel again. Tektus sits in his throne, humming low in his throat. When Kaelyn drops to one knee, his eyes open.  
  
“You may rise, child. What can I do for our newest member?”  
  
Kaelyn finds her feet again. “Forgive me, Confessor, but as much as I want to worship with the family here, I burn to catch a glimpse of the Mother again.” She’d planned her words with care, recited them until the shape of each one is carved into the walls of her memory. “I don’t think I’ll ever see her, but I yearn to understand her will, and the might of the Fog.”  
  
Tektus considers this. Kaelyn tries not to count the seconds until he grunts. “Go as you must, child. I cannot keep you if Atom wills otherwise.”  
  
Kaelyn openly packs her belongings and says her goodbyes. When she reaches the decontamination arches, she crouches behind the wall and peers out the window to the dry dock. Richter is skulking about the Vessel, as his next shift at the entrance isn’t until after the evening meal. Plenty of time.  
  
After all, she can’t be suspected of breaking into the command center if she’s already left.  
  
Kaelyn has already determined the quickest, safest path and practiced over the last few days. Activating her stealth boy, she turns around, creeping along the walls and hiding in the lengthy shadows. She zig zags up the stairs at the back of the chamber to reach the command center where a heavyset zealot stands. Even spiritual fervor can only sustain one for so long; she is, in the tradition of guards everywhere, bored out of her mind.  
  
Hugging the railing, Kaelyn takes it one step at a time. The bottle light at the zealot’s feet casts little light, but it may be enough at close range to spot a tell-tale ripple in the air.  
  
Small blessings, the door doesn’t creak on its hinges when she eases it inward. Kaelyn has stepped over the threshold when the guard grunts. She holds her breath. Eases one step back and sideways, into shadow. The guard peers into the room, her rifle clutched tight in her hands.  
  
 _Don’t notice the ripple in the air. Don’t notice the ripple in the air._  
  
With a shrug, the woman pulls the door shut. True to Deacon’s wisdom, she dismisses what can’t be easily explained as an oddity.  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t sigh in relief, even though she wants to. Just in case the guard can hear it.  
  
Then she turns around and faces the command center’s defenses. The US Navy spared no expense; she gapes at the corridor of moving laser tripwires. At first Kaelyn approaches to disarm them, but reconsiders. Best not make it any easier on the Children who might enter after her. With some careful timing, she makes it through the laser field unscathed.  
  
The base’s concrete construction has been grafted into the underlying rock, and its only remaining defenses are automated. It’s unknown if the protectrons have been reactivated by DiMA or if they still obey their original programming, serving the non-existent US Navy. Either way, the robots attack Kaelyn on sight—if they see her at all before she puts a bullet in their processors. Underneath her robe is her trusty jacket, reinforced with ballistic weave.  
  
At least here the lights are white and the shadows make sense. The tunnels are cold and damp, away from cloying heat of the irradiated pool in the main facility, and bereft of any religious paraphernalia. This is how it’s supposed to be—minus a nuclear Armageddon and a civilian traipsing down the corridors.  
  
Kaelyn wonders how offended the military would be if they knew what became of their facility.  
  
The tunnel opens up to a room with proper walls. A bay of computers sits behind a locked security door that doesn’t stay locked for long, courtesy of Kaelyn’s clever fingers.  
  
At the central U-shaped terminal bay, DiMA’s modifications are immediately obvious. A large plastic helmet of sorts is poised above the central computer, like some deep sea predator poised in dark waters. It reminds her of the Memory Den, of all things, with its luxurious loungers. Kaelyn loads the holotape DiMA had given her.  
  
How strange that this isn’t even the first time she’s going to delve into another entity’s memories. Only this time Valentine isn’t here to help her. Maybe he would be better suited to this than an organic; his mind must operate closer to a fellow synth’s than her hormone-soaked gray matter.  
  
 _ICE-breaker program loaded..._  
  
The helmet descends, powering up with a whine that pierces her brain. Her eyeballs itch and her vision—shifts.  
  
Gone is the terminal bay. In its place are streaks of blue that skim across the limitless horizon, beyond any reference, and she follows the white-hot lines of thought that burn and pulse and beckon. What she follows she doesn’t know, for without a _here_ there can be no _there_. There can be no _real_ without the _unreal;_ both states exist at once.  
  
 _The architecture you’re seeing is data. My data…  
_

—

Her first awareness is of pain. Her head pounds in quick, agonizing pulses all the worse for its lack of rhythm. She can barely keep her eyes open against the barrage of lights. A hot trail drips down her lips, over her chin. Copper in her throat. She wipes up the nosebleed as best she can, but it doesn’t stop flowing. Dimly, she remembers to pinch her nose and tilt her head back. Her neck screeches at the movement.  
  
When she tries to stand, her stiff muscles cry out. But she has to move before she’s discovered, before Richter takes his shift.  
  
Burning red light above the door—an exit. This leads her to a catwalk that stretches high above the Vessel. Glimpsing the shacks below with their strings of too-bright stars is a vertiginous experience. Every creak of rust makes her head flare. A nearby door leads to a decrepit store room, and from there a staircase that leads to the decontamination control room.  
  
She’s in luck—Sister Patrice is taking soup to the zealots on guard. Kaelyn barely remembers to switch on her stealth boy. Her fingers are thick and clumsy, but the field ripples to life and makes her eyes itch. She catches the door and weasels out, limping to the closest hole in the barrier. No one cares to look twice for a shiver of air in the Fog. She’s aided by the miserable conditions that have the zealots huddling under an awning. Rain falls in gentles waves; the clouds have a sick yellow cast. It mists in her hair, on her shoulders. Tracers of blue and green roll across her eyes, so thick she can hardly tell them from the Fog. If she can reach somewhere safe, reach Valentine—  
  
Kaelyn staggers as far as she can before a pair of arms close around her waist. Too late, she realizes her stealth boy has died. She’d fight, but one of the hands is metal. Two yellow pinpricks, as warm as twin suns and twice as bright, pierce the Fog. A voice hurts her skull but it’s a familiar baritone. Like an anchor, she sinks.  
  
Valentine sweeps an arm under the backs of her knees and the world lurches. She worries she’s going to throw up on his shoulder this time when acid burns her esophagus. No matter how smooth his gait, she bounces in his arms as he picks his way down a slope. Kaelyn presses her face into his shoulder and moans, fevered fingers digging into the front of his coat. It grows dim at last, the air stuffier, for which she’s thankful. He sets her down on something soft, to the protest of her spinning head. 

—

There’s nothing to do but wait out the pain. Curling up on the mattress, she jams her head under whatever serves as a pillow, but blocking out the light isn’t enough. She can’t even cry herself to sleep when every breath _hurts_. Hours chisel away under the acute sensation of a white-hot poker pressing behind her right eye.

—

When the agony finally relents, she learns that opening her eyes is a mistake. Feeling around her surroundings, she discovers she lies on a damp, oddly-shaped mattress. A coat has been draped over her, and another bundled under her head. There’s a needle in the crook of her elbow. Not radaway, for once, but med-x.  
  
Valentine’s face swims into view. “How are you feeling?”  
  
She moans. “My head isn’t trying to kill me anymore, but that’s it.”  
  
Her second attempt to open her eyes yields better success. The room that shelters them is a little basement. She isn’t lying on a bed, but a couch.  
  
Valentine perches on the edge of the couch, her thigh dipping against his hip. “What happened in there?”  
  
“I’m now an official Child of Atom. They knew about the—” but Valentine has been skeptical of her vision, so she changes it to, “They know DiMA’s memories are in the command center but can’t get past its defenses. I got in without anyone noticing and downloaded—” she casts about for her bag, even as it sends a warning twinge through her temples.  
  
Valentine catches her hands. “It’s okay, doll. I listened to ‘em. All of ‘em.”  
  
Under Valentine’s worried gaze, Kaelyn attempts to sit up, managing to put her shoulders against the armrest. Blood rushes away from her head in a nauseating buzz; she blinks away white stars. He offers her water, and she sips enough to wet her mouth. Minutes slide away into the quiet as she focuses on her breathing, willing away the sullen lump in her head that threatens to flare up should she move too fast.  
  
She notices Valentine’s mouth is pulled into a grim line. Kaelyn reaches up to touch his lips and completely misses. “What’s wrong?”  
  
His eyes flick to her and away, but whatever he sees in her convinces him. He admits, “DiMA really did help me escape, and I turned on him. Then he put me on my ass and left me for dead. But dammit, I can’t remember one moment of it!” His hands curl into fists. “First Kenji and now this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  
  
“Shh, shh.” Kaelyn tries with her whole hand this time, and manages to touch his jaw. “Maybe you don’t remember because you were distressed. Trauma does strange things to memory.”  
  
He looks profoundly unhappy. “Could you forget your brother because of one bad event?”  
  
That one actually hurts. Fighting the sting, she ventures, “Maybe DiMA’s right and you only have so much memory space.”  
  
Valentine’s jaw tightens. “I can remember waking up in that trash pile. Jim, the first person to treat me like a, well, a person. But hell, I hardly remember working that case with Kenji. How much could I have forgotten without knowing?”  
  
Kaelyn sits up fully, wincing at a twinge in her neck. Valentine watches her, concern etching itself over his anxiety, and she touches his arm to prove she’s all right. “You don’t know what you don’t know.”  
  
He screws his eyes shut tight. “At least DiMA can pick and choose what to forget. Makes me wonder what else I’ve forgotten—and what memories I’ll lose in the future.”   
  
Valentine looks to her, then, his eyes tracing the shape of her mouth, the line of her nose, the curve of her brow.   
  
Her stomach flutters. _Oh._  
  
“There are some things a man can’t forget. Some things he shouldn’t forget. Some things he doesn’t want to forget. And—hell, doll, this scares me.”  
  
Kaelyn touches his face with her fingertips, feeling every gouge and bump from years of wear. She traces the line of his jaw to the edge of his lips with a fingertip. “It’s going to be okay, Nick. We have time to come up with something. You could keep a journal or record holotapes. Maybe DiMA can help.”  
  
With a sigh at odds with his mechanical nature, Valentine leans into her touch. “DiMA helped me escape, then I turned on him and forgot him entirely. Now—well, I wanted proof we were connected and here it is.”  
  
Kaelyn smooths her thumb along his cheek. “Sometimes you can’t choose your family, but sometimes you can. It’s up to you, Nick. The question is, do you want a brother?”  
  
“A part of me already accepted the old synth as family. Never realized it until I took a listen to those.” He jerks his chin at the holotape pile. “Never realized just how it feels to know I’m not alone. But, blast it, what did DiMA do?”  
  
They stare at the innocuous little collection of holotapes on the table. Kaelyn hasn’t listened to them—she, for lack of a better term, processed them while inside DiMA’s memory banks.  
  
 _I’m offloading this memory. I cannot bear lying to Confessor Martin and his Children any longer. Better to just forget…_  
  
 _I’m going to remove the kill switch command codes from my memory. I’ll bury a hard copy if I need to use it, but I can’t keep it close to me. The thought makes me sick…_  
  
 _We just need one of their own who’s on our side. I can’t let anyone know what I’m about to do. I’ll need to set up the equipment far away from Acadia. It’ll double as a place to bury the evidence…_  
  
Kaelyn drops her head into her hands. Presses her fingers to her brow, her temple, her closed eyelids.   
  
How did she ever want to forget?  
  
Her hands come back black and Valentine chuckles. The sound is scratchy and strained, but genuine. “Hope you weren’t needing that makeup for something. Unless the raccoon look suffices?”  
  
“Funny, Valentine.” Her efforts to wipe the paint away just smear more of it over her hands. Spying a nearby bowl, she coats the bottom with a precious dribble of water and hunts for a cloth.  
  
Valentine closes his hand over her own. “If you’ll allow me.”  
  
Kaelyn relinquishes the washer to him and makes room for him on the couch. One metal finger curls under her chin, tilting her face up. She shivers at the first drag of the cloth, shockingly cold and wet. Valentine works slowly, stroke by stroke, cleaning the paint from her skin until the water turns murky. Rivulets of gray water dart down the column of her throat, roll between her breasts. He traverses the bridge of her nose to her other cheek, taking care around her eye, over her forehead, and finally her jaw.  
  
With a sudden smirk, Valentine leans forward to lick a stray droplet from her chin, just below the corner of her mouth. Kaelyn shivers at the feel of his not-quite-wet tongue. He smiles against her skin, and then presses a kiss just under her jaw. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back to grant him easier access to her neck, trembling at the next press of his lips.  
  
Kaelyn rests her hands on his shoulders, toying with the collar of his shirt. “Nick...”  
  
Valentine tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, sliding his mechanical hand around the back of her neck, and presses his forehead against her collarbone. “Tell me you aren’t going to get lost in the Fog again. Tell me you aren’t going to forget me.”  
  
She thinks of Jule, and DiMA, and the price of forgetting.  
  
“I won’t.” And she means it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW. A SFW version can be found over [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12096463/13/What-Makes-a-Memory) on FFNet.

In retrospect, stomping into Far Harbor dragging a sled’s worth of meat with her power armor may not be the most dignified thing Kaelyn has ever done. But the looks on the Harborfolks’ faces is absolutely worth it.  
  
Doc Teddy’s smile is approving when directed at Kaelyn and Valentine, and smug when he addresses everyone else. “Gather round, folks!”  
  
The shout seems redundant when half of the dock’s occupants have already emerged to investigate the racket. The people on watch atop the Hull peer down from the battlements, while the Mariner clutches the door to her shack and shoves her glasses on her nose. Cassie Dalton turns her chair around to face the dock. Mitch, Debbie and Uncle Ken stand by the door to The Last Plank, while Captain Avery emerges from her house to stand by Teddy’s side. Kaelyn and Avery have already discussed it in private, agreeing on a united front to avoid giving the appearance that Kaelyn and Valentine are attempting to usurp her.  
  
“Times have been tough, as we all know, but look at this here catch!” Teddy throws out an arm to the power armor with its sled of meat. “This proves that we can turn things around. Our very own mainlanders here brought this for us. They did the Captain’s Dance!”  
  
Murmurs break out through the crowd, rippling like tides crashing on the rocks. Teddy gives them a moment, then barrels straight over them: “Now, I know mainlanders are responsible for all manner of harm, but the way I see it, these two ain’t mainlanders anymore. They’re two of us!”  
  
Kaelyn is floored by the cheer this elicits from the gathered Harborfolk. She shares a look with Valentine, who is equally bemused.  
  
Teddy touches her shoulder. “Get cleaned up, and we’ll get the feast ready.”  
  
True to his word, by the time Kaelyn has wiped away sweat and muck from her hide and changed into the clothes Debbie laundered—and unlike Mitch, she doesn’t usually give anything away for free—several tables have been pushed together outside on the dock. The door to The Last Plank has been jammed open so people can move freely between the buffet and the bar. Massive cooking pots simmer the best cuts while the rest is to be salted and stored. From the wafting steam that curls above the pots, someone broke out rare seasonings for the occasion.  
  
Valentine is already seated at the table. He can’t partake in dinner, but he has a full glass of whiskey and a cigarette. Avery claims the head of the table, as befits the captain, while Kaelyn and Valentine sit at her right. As the food cooks, people demand the story of how they killed the mirelurk horde and lured out the queen. So Kaelyn and Valentine tell it, taking turns to add details the other missed.  
  
All in all, it hadn’t been as difficult as retaking the Castle, but the swampy conditions had made it a frustrating fight. Kaelyn does not look forward to cleaning her power armor.  
  
Then the meal is served, and everyone digs in.  
  
Somewhere along the line—Kaelyn isn’t quite sure when—someone switches her own bottle of Vim! for something with more kick. The liquor doesn’t go with seafood at all, but she still welcomes the warming burr of alcohol in her blood. It’s an evening for stories, with everyone telling their neighbors of their exploits, sometimes yelling over one another.  
  
After Bradley finishes recounting the time he hooked a mini nuke on his fishing line, another Harborman slurs, “And why is it you talk funny?”  
  
Bradley puffs out his chest. “The family legend has it we hail from Yorkshire. Not entirely sure where that it. Capital Wasteland, maybe?”  
  
Kaelyn drops her head into her hand. “Does anyone have a globe?”   
  
Although, truth be told, she still isn’t exactly sure where Capital Wasteland is.  
  
Brooks returns with a globe from his store. Kaelyn finds the east coast of the USA, trailing her fingers along the coastline until she finds Maine. “See this? We’re here, at Bar Harbor. That’s what this place was called before the Great War.”  
  
A number of Harborfolk gather round to see. Kaelyn spins the globe and presses her finger to England. “Yorkshire is over here, in England. Across the ocean.”  
  
Murmurs break out around them. Bradley takes the globe from her and touches the spot. “Are you sure? That’s a long way away.”  
  
“Before the war, people could travel greater distances.” At least tonight the old wound only gives a warning pang instead of cracking open when she reminisces. “Ever seen an airplane?”  
  
No matter Bradley’s skepticism while in Kaelyn’s earshot, he still shows anyone that will stand still where Yorkshire is on the globe.   
  
Pressing a hand to the spot that aches behind her breastbone, Kaelyn moves away from the party to get some fresh air on the pier. The twilight sky has faded to blue, ringed in green-gray along the horizon. A ropey violet cloud strafes across the sky, its torn edges rust red. With only the lanterns at her back she watches the encroaching dark without fear.  
  
Kaelyn starts, but realizes it’s only Valentine behind her. She glances over her shoulder at him, a tease ready, and freezes. Valentine is—very close. If she tilts her head, she might hear the faint whirr of his internal mechanics. As it is, he ducks his head so his mouth is dangerously close to her ear.  
  
“What’s the matter?” he teases. “Cat got your tongue?”  
  
She shivers at the fan of his not-quite-warm breath spilling over her neck. “I was hoping something else might catch my tongue.” Not exactly her smoothest flirt, but it’s been a while since she’s practiced.  
  
“Were you now? You might have to clarify what you mean.”  
  
“You’re an intelligent man, Detective Valentine. I’m sure you can think of something.”   
  
He presses his mouth to her nape.   
  
Kaelyn shivers at the contact and turns. “Nick—”  
  
That’s the moment Brooks chooses to wander over to them. At least Valentine’s reaction times are superhumanly fast; by the time Brooks reaches them, they’re standing a respectable distance from each other. “Heard you went out after that synth, Derrick. Did you ever find him?”  
  
“Yeah, we found him before trappers could make a meal of him. He’s in Acadia.” Kaelyn does her best to pay attention and ignore the flare of disappointment at Valentine’s discreet retreat.  
  
“Good to hear it. Shit, I felt guilty about the whole thing. Should’ve calmed him down.”  
  
As Brooks leaves, Kaelyn notices a small head peeping around the corner from the behind The Last Plank. Kaelyn draws Bertha and Tony through the crowd to the buffet table and gives them her seat. The two kids squish together between the armrests, fitting into the tight space the way only children can. Kaelyn claims a bottle of Vim! for them, who again share it without a fight. It’s downright uncanny to watch.  
  
Captain Avery gets roaring drunk and regales them with the tale of her own Captain’s Dance. “—and the queen looked me straight in the eye. As she lunged at me, I raised my harpoon gun and shot her right in the teeth!” Her words are punctuated by her raised glass, which sloshes at the sudden movement.  
  
Among the hoots and cheering, Kaelyn glances around for Valentine. He leans against a nearby wall with a cigarette between his teeth, and when he glances in her direction she winks at him. There’s too much distance between them to be certain, but she swears he looks mildly flustered.   
  
The urge to cross the boardwalk to his side, to tease him about his endearing reaction, to reassure any uncertainty he has, grips her sudden and swift. Kaelyn has to retell her version of events one more time before she can extract herself from the table. As she passes Valentine, she winks again and tilts her chin to indicate he follow her. The gesture is unnecessary when he’s already pushing off the from the wall; unseen, his hand brushes her lower back and she fights another shiver.  
  
A drunker-than-usual Mitch staffs the bar, and the few people in the common room are distracted by a drinking contest. No one notices Kaelyn and Valentine slink to the stairs. She pauses with a foot on the first stair and turns. In the dim stairwell, the luminous amber of his eyes seem brighter, _hotter_ than ever. He halts when she does, with scant inches between them.  
  
With every breath, her chest brushes the lapel of his coat. “Fancy seeing you here.”  
  
His chuckle is a low, rumbling thing that caresses her skin like silk. “Quite the coincidence.”  
  
She cups his face and almost sticks her fingers in his jaw hinge. “Oh! Sorry.”  
  
Unexpectedly, Valentine chuckles again and crosses the last inches between them. His kiss is a slow, deep thing, his fingers running through her short-shorn hair. Kaelyn lets out a sigh, teasing his lower lip with her teeth, and the feel of him ignites the heat in her belly. He tastes like polymer and tobacco. Even though the common room is distracted by Mitch’s latest call for a free round, and they’re partially obscured by the wall, it isn’t a good spot for canoodling.  
  
She murmurs, “How about we take this somewhere a little more private, hmm?”  
  
His half-second of uncertainty is enough for her to step back, but he catches her arm as the corners of his mouth kick up in a smile. “If you’re sure, I’d love to.”  
  
With a giggle, Kaelyn takes his hand and pulls him up the stairs.

—

The door to her room is just behind her back. Pressed into a darkened nook, with salt-weakened timber digging into her shoulders, Valentine crowds her with one arm snug around her waist and the other braced on the wall above her head. Claiming his mouth, she hooks an arm around his neck to keep him where she wants him. He loosens his hold around her waist only for his hips to pin her to the door.  
  
His hand—the flesh one—skims down her ribs, following the curve of her waist to her hip and back up to find her breast. Kaelyn nips his lower lip for that, even as she savors the heat tightening her belly. From there he eases back only to give himself enough room to slip a hand to her waistline, sneaking under her shirt. The calluses on his hand are unlike those of a human’s— instead of becoming rougher with age, his skin has worn shiny and smooth. Her breath hitches at the contact.  
  
Speaking of, Valentine’s clever fingers then weasel past her belt buckle and downward. Kaelyn presses her head into the crook of his neck to arrest a gasp, arching against him, whispering encouragement and the occasional direction. His jaw presses against her temple and she feels his smile, his explorations too slow to be anything other than a tease. She runs her hand up around his collar, seeking a way in past his clothes, but there’s none to be found.  
  
Laughter and drunken song floats up the stairs, punctuated by the scrape of chairs—a reminder of how precarious their position is. A little noise escapes her at a flick of his fingers, her toes curling in her boots.  
  
“Quietly, now,” Valentine croons. “Don’t want folks downstairs to catch the show.”  
  
A strange thrill tightens low in her belly at the knowledge that they could be discovered at any moment. Biting the junction where his neck meets shoulder, she has the satisfaction of feeling him jolt. Valentine’s fingers become quick and intent, no longer exploratory but dedicated to stoking the fire that’s well on its way to consuming her.  
  
Every line of her body goes taut at once and Kaelyn stifles a cry in his shoulder. All that keeps her upright is Valentine’s chest in front of her and the door behind her. She pants into his neck, flushed and sated, but still makes a disappointed noise when he removes his hand.  
  
“How about we get settled, hmm?” Valentine covers her hand on the doorknob and turns it.  
  
Kaelyn tightens her arm around him to avoid flopping backwards. Kicking off their boots, they settle together on a mattress that was built for only one. She flings his fedora across the room, earning a scowl and a nip to her earlobe.  
  
“You don’t go tossing away a man’s personal property.”  
  
She’s already worked his tie loose. “Too late. Take your coat off, too.”  
  
When Valentine’s clad only in his shirt, suspenders and trousers, Kaelyn pushes him onto his back and settles on top of him. Resting her elbows on either side of his head, she peppers his face with kisses—the tip of his nose, the wrinkles at the corner of his eye, and finally his lips. Valentine hums low in his throat, his lips smooth against hers, and she delights in the thrill of it. A light rain patters on the windows as the minutes slide by. Downstairs, the party sounds like it’s still in full swing, but it’s forgettable against the quiet rustle of sheets. Most of the skin on Valentine’s neck has been chipped away through wear, so she’s careful as she traces her lips under his chin and down the line of skin to his collarbone. She’s halted by his shirt—and by his hand tensing on her back.  
  
Valentine clears his throat. “Hold up a sec. You know I’m not like...”  
  
She’s seen plenty of second gen synths to know they are by no means a perfect mimicry of human anatomy. “It’s okay, Nick.” Still, he squirms slightly underneath her. She sits up to run her fingers along his shoulder instead. “Is there anything you need?”  
  
Valentine catches her straying hand and presses his lips to the pulse point in her wrist. “Second gens aren’t wired for that, doll.”  
  
Disappointment wells in her stomach even as he turns his full attention to her wrist, tracing the vein with his mouth. It feels—selfish to take pleasure and give none in return. She’s about to ask if he’s sure, but holds her tongue. He’s given an answer, and if ever he changes his mind he knows where to find her.  
  
Sensing her unease, Valentine rolls them both so they’re lying on their sides and runs his knuckles over her cheekbone. “‘S all right.”  
  
“If you’re all right, I’m all right.” Kaelyn kisses his cheek. Throwing a leg over his hip, she curls against his chest. “I know you don’t sleep, but can you stay tonight?”  
  
Valentine chuckles. “Couldn’t pry me away with a crowbar.”  
  
They settle into quiet stillness, until the faint sounds of continuing revelry creep under the crack in the door.  
  
Her hand rests on his chest, where his breastbone would be. “Nick?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Do you need to breathe?”  
  
He’s quiet a moment. “Habit, mostly.”  
  
Underneath her hand she can feel the faint tick of servos that keep him operational. “Where do we go from here?”  
  
“We take it one day at a time, doll. First, we solve our outstanding mysteries on the island. From there—we’ll see.”  
  
She drags a hand over her eyes to hide the sudden swell of moisture. Oh, but she wishes they were anywhere but on this island with its never-ending intrigue. “At least I get the sense DiMA isn’t the judging type.”  
  
Valentine gives a warm, throaty chuckle. “True, that.”  
  
Kaelyn closes her eyes and lets sleep take her. She still dreams; nothing can ease her nightly parade of losses. But when awareness returns, the gray filtering through her eyelids seems lighter. Trying to crack open her eyes is like trying to crack an egg open with a feather instead of a fork. So she lets herself drift, ignoring the twinge along her lower back from her contorted position. Lulled by the bulk at her side, the sound of breathing—  
  
Kaelyn bolts upright. Valentine—it’s Valentine in bed with her. She runs a hand over her face, through her hair, shoulders compressing with a sigh. He rests on his back with his metal hand folded over his stomach, eyes closed. She presses her lips to the edge of his jaw, but he doesn’t even twitch. Must be running system diagnostics, then; it’s the closest he ever comes to checking out of the real world.   
  
Leaving him to it, she pads on bare feet to the tiny square of a window, pressing a hand to the glass. Gold glints on her left hand. She covers her ring, stroking over the warm metal that’s as familiar as her fingerprints. Bowing her head, Kaelyn tightens her hold. Then she works the band off her finger and threads it on the chain around her neck, where it sits beside Nate’s ring and his dog tags.  
  
After—after last night, it’s time.  
  
Kaelyn feels bare without her wedding ring. Cold air prickles at skin that’s been covered for years. She leans on the sill and watches the Fog through the grimy window. Despite the brave patch of blue filling the top half of the pane, there’s no heat filtering through the glass.  
  
The mattress squeaks. “Mornin’, doll.”  
  
“Morning. How are you feeling?”  
  
“That a trick question? Cause I’m feeling pretty darned good after last night. You?”  
  
Kaelyn closes her eyes and hums. “Better.”  
  
He lets out a long breath, and admits begrudgingly, “Guess we’d better investigate those co-ordinates. Find all those codes and kill switches and what have you.”  
  
“They’re safer in our hands than in anyone else’s.”  
  
The mattress behind her rustles, and mechanical arms wrap around her waist. Pressing against her back, Valentine kisses the dip of her shoulder. “Don’t know what I ever did to catch your eye, but I’m sure glad I did.”  
  
Kaelyn rests her hands on top of his. “Is it really such a mystery, Nick? I thought detectives were supposed to be good at deductive reasoning.”  
  
“There are some assumptions a man shouldn’t make, doll. Presuming somebody’s interest is one of them.” He shifts to weave their fingers together, and pauses. He doesn’t go still like a human, who cannot help the fine trembles of coursing blood or the shift of lungs or the minute adjustments for balance. No, his hands go completely still, digging into her flesh when her lungs expand.  
  
Of course Valentine notices immediately. His thumb runs over the spot where her ring used to sit, drawing a shiver from her.  
  
Kaelyn tugs herself free; he lets go at once. “Don’t say anything.”  
  
In silence, they pack their gear and head out into the Fog.

—

With great reluctance, Kaelyn peels out of her power armor to enter the elevator. At least the Fog hasn’t managed to sink this far. Praying the cables hold, she hits the down button. When the doors close, the cramped space is pitched into darkness, save for the twin lights that are Valentine’s eyes. Having acquired the nuclear launch key and Fog condenser kill switch, the final set of co-ordinates from DiMA’s memory has led them to the Vim! Pop Factory.  
  
No one said anything about the hive of super mutants who filled the entrance fountain with decomposing meat. They even used the brewing vats as hot tubs.  
  
Not something one sees every day.  
  
With a cheery _ding,_ the elevator doors part. This room is of an entirely different construction than the factory, with a wood veneer and pre-war furniture. There’s even a defunct television in the corner. Three skeletons, likely pre-war, are scattered about the room.  
  
Valentine stiffens after a single look over the railing. “That’s never a good sign.” He takes the creaking stairs two at a time and stalks to the middle of the room, where dark earth blooms through the concrete. Loose chunks of concrete are scattered around the edges of the roughly rectangular gap.  
  
Cocking her head, Kaelyn tries to puzzle it out. “What is it, Nick?”  
  
“Detective lesson number a hundred and eighty seven: any disturbance in the ground that’s six feet long? Is a grave. Look for a shovel or anything we could use to dig with.”  
  
They spread out to search the room. Kaelyn’s the one to find the abandoned shovel, half-hidden under the couch. They take turns digging, more because she volunteers to help than because Valentine needs breaks. When it isn’t his turn he stalks around the room, passing the couch where they tossed their coats. Kaelyn drives the shovel blade down and hits something solid. Wood. Valentine is by her side in a heartbeat, claiming the shovel from her grasp. He scrapes the rest of the dirt away with a practiced technique that makes her wonder, and then the coffin is exposed.  
  
With Kaelyn at one end and Valentine at the other, they lift the lid.  
  
She leans back, gagging at the smell of rot and dust and bone meal. Her partner, however, is already inspecting the skeleton more thoroughly when she shakes herself out—and she barely catches the holotape he tosses at her with more force than necessary.  
  
“Play it.”  
  
She fumbles at the restrained anger in his voice.  
  
Click. Click.  
  
DiMA’s voice: _“No one else can know about this. It isn’t just about infiltrating Far Habor. It’s about being the human that arriving synths need to meet. Reasonable. Willing to accept them as just another living thing. You’ll be part of the bridge between our two worlds. That all vanishes the moment people discover that it’s been manufactured. That you’re actually a synth.”_  
  
A second voice. A woman’s. _“Did she have to die? The woman I’m replacing? She— she looks so peaceful lying there...”_  
  
 _“Don’t. Please. That blood is on my hands. Not yours.”_  
  
Valentine turns his head to the side, eyes screwed shut. Jaw clenched so tightly the servos grind.   
  
Kaelyn says nothing. Waits him out.  
  
“Dammit, DiMA. Hiding the keys to the island’s destruction is one thing, but this? God. Why?”  
  
“You heard why.” Kaelyn feels sick. “Nick, I’m sorry—”  
  
Valentine steps back out of reach, so she drops her hand. “Don’t be. You didn’t do this.” He returns his attention to the skeleton, running two metal fingers over the hole in the breastbone, and withdraws a tarnished silver locket. He sits back on his heels and closes his eyes. Then he draws in a harsh breath that grates on the broken concrete. “We’ll search the area, just in case there’s anything else.”  
  
There are two adjoining rooms: a bathroom with a collapsed wall, and a storage area with a bay of machinery and an observation window. Valentine strides forward for a better look and—  
  
“Scanning. Approved user detected. Synth prototype. Unlocking medical door.”  
  
Valentine startles, hand strafing towards his pistol. “What? This thing knows what I am? How? Just who are you?”  
  
That’s when Kaelyn notices the speaker beside the control panel. “I am KYE 1.1, a computer intelligence designed to control this medical facility. You match all specifications of an approved user.”  
  
Her shirt, already sticky from dirt and exertion, grows damp with an apprehensive sweat. Fresh unease turns her gut as she peers through the window. “Medical facility...?”  
  
Valentine makes a low noise in his throat, the sound bordering on tinny. “This must be DiMA’s handiwork. Guess he never thought another prototype synth would be on the island.”  
  
He pushes through the door with Kaelyn on his heels. The lights flick on as they cross the threshold; Kaelyn recoils with a hiss while Valentine barely bats an eyelid. Cold white light bounces off the concrete, off the medical equipment and cabinets arrayed against the walls. It brings out the red of the gurney that sits under a lamp. Surgical implements rest on a tray beside it. Spots of maroon dust the floor.  
  
Valentine stands under the harsh light, fedora tipped low to shroud his face, hands shoved in his pockets. He surveys the gurney in complete silence. This room with its overbright lights reminds her of the Institute and its artificial construction, so far removed from anything natural it lost all claim to humanity.   
  
“So this is where he...”  
  
“We should go. There’s nothing for us here.” Kaelyn holds out a hand.  
  
Valentine’s gaze flits from the gurney to her hand to her face. Then he rests his palm in hers and lets her pull him away.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: [Nothing Left to Say by Imagine Dragons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q6zqH6qKaTU).

Space was what Valentine gave her after the Institute rebellion, so Kaelyn returns the favor. When they reach The Last Plank, she takes care of the mundane tasks of human survival. What she doesn’t anticipate is how hard it is to keep her distance when she knows he’s hurting. The impulse flits across her mind like a colorful bird that begs to be chased: _what if I can help? What can I say? What is there to say?_  
  
Sitting in a booth with roast mirelurk and tatos, along with a bottle of Vim!, Kaelyn tries to convince herself that circling over the day’s revelations is in any practical. Searching for a new angle, some missed detail. Something that can vindicate DiMA, if only for Valentine’s sake. The holotape burns a hole in her pocket. She imagines the smell of it, that acrid tang of burning plastic, of smoke curling about her nose. The fabric of her jacket charring a rectangle of black where it touches the holotape, her skin roasting underneath.  
  
DiMA replaced Avery with a synth. Just like the Institute replaced Mayor McDonough and countless others.  
  
Just like the Institute.  
  
Kaelyn is on her feet without realizing she’s risen, checking Deliverer is loaded, pressing a hand to her pocket. It bulges with not just the holotape but the locket, too. Tossing a handful of caps on the table for Debbie, she eases past a trio of drunken fishermen celebrating their morning catch and slips out the door.  
  
Avery sits in her office on the second floor of her house, behind a desk that looks far too big to have ever been hauled up the rickety stairs. She glances up at Kaelyn’s knock on the door frame, dropping her feet from the table with a clunk. “Mainlander. Although, according to Doc Teddy, no one can call you that anymore. Something you need?”  
  
Avery looks the same as she always has, with the brown age spots dusting her face, her silver hair neatly combed, and her canny eyes that are starting to narrow, sensing danger in the air.  
  
Kaelyn steps into the room, surreptitiously checking for any possible eavesdroppers. Best this conversation stay between the two of them right now. “What’s the penalty for murder in Far Harbor?”  
  
Her white eyebrows arch. “We’re too independent to really have laws. But if it can be proven, tradition is the culprit is executed. Extreme, but it keeps the peace.” She leans forward, planting her hands on the table top. “That’s never an idle question. If you’ve found something, I hope you have unquestionable proof.”  
  
Reaching into her pocket, Kaelyn draws out the locket and flings it onto the table. It hits the wood, bounces, skids to a halt in front of Avery.  
  
“What’s this—my locket?” She runs a finger over the tarnished silver; it comes away black. A wistful look steals across her face, but a sudden tightness tugs her eyebrows together. “I lost this in a fire, years ago.” Then she looks up, now sharp: “How did you know this is mine? Where on earth did you find it?”  
  
“I found it,” Kaelyn answers, impassive, “in a grave. Captain Avery’s grave.”  
  
Avery blinks. “What? A _grave?_ Just what are you trying to say, mainlander?”  
  
“That DiMA killed the real Avery and replaced her with a synth. You.”  
  
An old trick Kaelyn learned in law school: humans are, generally, poorer liars than people think, but their expressions can be distracting. Therefore, look away from their face and listen for the lie.  
  
So she watches the black collar of Avery’s vest, heaving in time with her breaths, and hears only the cold ring of truth. “No— no, that can’t be! You’re wrong! I can’t be a synth! I’m me. I’m _human.”_  
  
Ice fills Kaelyn’s stomach. She dares a glance at Avery’s face—and the captain’s utter shock, eyes wide and white-ringed, is the final nail in the coffin. “No, he didn’t—he _didn’t._ You have no idea, do you? You’re not sending reports back to DiMA? You don’t know anything about his scheme.” The last one isn’t a question.  
  
DiMA’s recorded words take on a new meaning: _it will be like having everything you are stripped away and replaced with something else._ Someone _else_.  
  
Kaelyn prowls from one edge of the room to the other, avoiding the splintered floorboards that have been patched with a sheet of plywood. Why go to all the effort of replacing someone with a synth who isn’t self-aware? What can a synth do if she doesn’t know who she serves?  
  
She wonders. _Some kind of unconscious suggestion, perhaps?_  
  
“No.” Avery shakes her head back and forth. “No, I barely have anything to do with DiMA. I remember everything, from the time I was a girl on the farm!”  
  
Watching Avery’s desperate bid of denial, thrashing in a snare that only grows tighter, Kaelyn realizes how badly she misjudged the situation. “I’m sorry, Avery.”  
  
“You’re wrong! I can’t be… can’t be…”  
  
Kaelyn takes a careful turn around the desk to crouch beside Avery’s chair. “Look. Personhood is a thorny question at the best of times, let alone when you throw foreign identities in the mix. You are whoever you choose to be. If that’s Avery—that’s fine.”  
  
Avery’s voice is very quiet. “Just tell me why.”  
  
She closes her eyes. “Manufacturing goodwill between synths and humans is easier than earning it. He wanted a moderate voice. An ambassador, if you will.”  
  
Avery clenches her jaw. “Confront DiMA. Make the old synth pay, if you can. But don’t tell anyone about— about this. Far Harbor already stands on the brink, and this could could tip everyone over the edge.”  
  
“I can’t see anyone in Far Harbor harmed. Nor anyone in Acadia. I don’t know what they’d do to you if this got out and—” Kaelyn draws in a long, thin breath through her nose and rises to her feet. “I won’t tell anyone. Just—there are innocent synths in Acadia, too. Please don’t hate them, or yourself, for what DiMA did.”  
  
The old captain says nothing more, her baleful gaze fixed on the damning locket, and so Kaelyn takes her leave.  
  
But Avery calls after her, “This isn’t justice you’ve done here. It’s mercy.”  
  
Mercy.  
  
Kaelyn halts on the threshold, head bowed, hand clenched around the doorknob. For all the centuries civilizations have spent trying to determine the boundaries of justice, carving law after law into stone until it wallowed in the minutiae that had seen her spending hours in the library, pouring over every half-relevant act while building a case—  
  
If justice had been difficult to find then, it’s all but impossible now.

—

When Kaelyn pushes open the door with the green fish, Valentine is already in their room. He sits at the cramped writing desk with his fedora in his lap and a screwdriver in hand, performing routine maintenance. Shutting the door behind her, she treads on light feet to breach the space between them. His auditory receptors are keener than human ears, as she’s long since learned, so he has to know her exact location. He doesn’t react when she rests her hands on his shoulders.  
  
“Hey, Nick. How are you feeling?” Kaelyn digs her thumbs into his shoulders but meets the resistance of rubbery polymer stretched over steel instead of stiff muscle. It hits her then that she can’t give him a massage to ease some of the tension in his frame. Disappointment wells in her stomach, but she shoves the surly flare away.  
  
Pausing his work, Valentine rests one hand atop her own. “Tossing up the hard questions is tiring work. Where have you been?”  
  
“Chatting to Avery. She—doesn’t know, Nick. All this time she thought she was the real Avery. Suffice to say she isn’t in league with DiMA.”  
  
Since they’re so close, she can feel Valentine twitch at the name. DiMA, at once gentle and terrible, compassionate and ruthless.  
  
“I still can’t wrap my head around it, ya know. DiMA—he’s a good person. Or so I thought. But blast it, this isn’t how you go about building peace between synths and humans.”  
  
“What he did—it’s like the Institute,” she whispers, and he flinches as if she dealt him a blow. “I guess the apple didn’t fall far from the tree there. Maybe he learned more from the Institute than he would like.”  
  
Valentine toys with her fingers on his shoulder. Light filters over the desk from the grimy window, cool and blue, evicting shadows to the corners of the room. Kaelyn barely notices the salt stains anymore. “I’ve got a question for you, doll, and it ain’t an easy one. Please don’t retreat from me.”  
  
She pulls free and folds her hands over her stomach, spine stiff. “Go on.”  
  
“When you found your boy in the Institute—learned what he was—how did you… cope with it?”  
  
Her laugh is brittle. “You were there. You were the first person I went to after I came back that first time. I _didn’t_ deal with it, and you know that. I just... kept going, followed orders, focused on the people I could still help. Hoped for anything other than a bad ending.”  
  
Valentine turns, chair scraping on the floor, and pulls her into his lap. Kaelyn wraps her arms around his neck and presses against him while he cards his fingers through her hair. The comfort he offers can’t reach the lump in her heart, but she presses her nose into his collar all the same. Although, from the way he tucks her head under his chin and tightens his hold on her, she wonders if this is more for her or him.  
  
“Helping the innocents about to be caught in the crossfire—that might be all we’ve got. If you have any advice, doll, I’m all ears.”  
  
“I can’t decide what to do with DiMA. My—” the words catch in her throat. “My hands are no cleaner. Besides, he’s your family.”  
  
“That doesn’t make _me_ any better equipped to decide what to do with him,” Valentine retorts, his voice a shade too sharp. “There’s no one else in the world like him. There’s no other DiMA in the world. We’re the only two prototype synths the Institute made. All the other gen twos? Dumber than a box of rocks. DiMA understands things about being a synth that even you can’t. He’s done all he can to give those synths a home. And what will happen to Acadia in all this? But hell, Kaelyn, he murdered someone.”  
  
She runs her knuckles down the side of his face from temple to jaw. “Whether it’s an imprint of the old Nick’s personality or by your own choice, you are one of the most morally upstanding people I have ever met. You know that, right?”  
  
He makes a noise low in his throat. “Right now, that doesn’t feel like a compliment. Murder’s a capital offense. Always has been. And I don’t know if I can...”  
  
“Is the only possible justice down the barrel of a gun?”  
  
“How do you figure?”  
  
Kaelyn’s palms dampen with sweat. She rises to her feet to drift around the confines of their room. “You said, before, that you don’t stop caring about someone because they’re gone. Sometimes you can’t stop because they’ve done bad things, either.” She pauses, looks down. “You remember before we came here, when I asked you about justice?”  
  
Valentine’s acknowledging grunt is too neutral; she wonders what he recalls about that night.  
  
“Before I went to Diamond City—to you—I wandered on my own. I found a Railroad safehouse that had been hit by raiders. They killed everyone. The agents. The synths. I tracked the gang to their hideout and—slaughtered them. Every last one.”  
  
What was it Avery said? _It isn’t justice you’ve done here, but mercy._  
  
What she did to those raiders was neither of the above.  
  
Kaelyn presses her fingers to her temples. “I don’t want to be the executioner. Not anymore. I am _tired_ of death, Nick. We could argue about intent and mitigating factors until we die, and it won’t change the fact that those people—the raiders, Avery—are dead. So I’m left wondering if there’s any justice out here that doesn’t involve more blood.”  
  
Valentine says nothing, face tight, the circuits in his cranium no doubt operating in overdrive. His processing time has always been shorter than a human’s, so as the seconds drag into a minute Kaelyn wonders what he’s thinking.  
  
“Tomorrow,” he says at last, “we’ll talk to DiMA. If we’re doing this the proper way, he gets his turn to defend himself. And maybe there’ll be something... maybe we got something wrong, and it isn’t what it looks like.”  
  
“Nick—”  
  
But he continues, at once weary and determined. “Sometimes the truth is all we’ve got. I have to get to the bottom of this.”

—

They lie together in the quiet, her back pressed against his chest, his arm draped over her waist. What wakes her is not a stray kick from her bedmate but his utter stillness, alerting a quiet instinct in the back of her mind that says, _this can’t be right_. Valentine isn’t even breathing.   
  
Kaelyn stretches her legs, her heels brushing against his shins, and presses more firmly against his chest. Without opening her eyes, she covers his hand with her own. “What’s up?”  
  
His voice, while quiet, doesn’t rumble with lethargy. Fatigue, maybe, of a different sort to the biological process that drags her eyelids down. “My memories, my experiences—none of them were ever really mine. Jenny was never really my fiancée. I’ve lived in the old Nick’s shadow for so long I never realized what it was like to have something that’s not recycled from him.”  
  
Her eyes are open now, staring at the wall, and she wills her mind to engage. “Where are you going with this?”  
  
“The old Nick never had any siblings, you know. But DiMA—he’s something I have the old Nick didn’t. So I don’t know if I can make the hard call like you did.”  
  
“I don’t follow.”  
  
“Justice over family. Your boy.”  
  
 _Oh_. With lethargy draped over her like another blanket, she’s haunted only by numb echoes of pain. “You are not me and DiMA is not— is not Shaun.”  
  
“Even so, you set one heck of an example. He could be my only family, but I have to—”  
  
“Shh. Now’s not the time to worry about that. Go back to sleep.” It takes her muddled mind several moments to work out what’s wrong with that statement. “Oh. Sorry.”  
  
Valentine tightens his arm around her waist so she can’t roll over, and presses his lips to the soft skin below her ear. “’S fine.”  
  
 _It’s not,_ she wants to say, but sleep beckons with feather-light fingers and the impulse jumbles somewhere between her brain and her tongue. She thinks she hears herself say something, but it’s garbled to her own ears; she’s already sinking below the tides of sleep.

—

Since it had been Kasumi who put them up to the investigation in the first place, they check in with her first.  
  
“Dammit.” Kasumi runs a hand through her hair and grabs a fistful at the roots. She paces three quick steps and turns on her heel. “I knew there was something. But... you said he had good intentions. That he wants peace. Does this mean we should help him?”  
  
“It takes more than good intentions to do the right thing, kid,” Valentine says, but his voice is quiet. “DiMA’s heart’s in the right place, but his plans need some serious work. To say the least.”  
  
“So what do we do, then? This island is ready to explode—maybe literally. DiMA hid those codes to stop anyone from using them, right?” Kasumi worries her lower lip. “There are good people—good synths—here. What happens to them?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Acadia is their haven. Their home. This place is worth protecting, Kasumi. War— war is the last thing I want.”  
  
There’s little more to say after that. Kasumi asks them to confront DiMA before making up their minds, but her eyes are dark and worried.   
  
In the stairwell, out of view from any passersby, Kaelyn slows to a halt and, after a glance around, takes Valentine’s hand. Rubbing her thumb in circles over his, she stretches to press her lips to his cheek. “Ready?”  
  
He links their fingers together and squeezes. “As I’ll ever be. Let’s get this over with.”  
  
Before they climb the stairs, she says, “Whatever you decide, I won’t blame you.”  
  
DiMA unfolds from his chair with an eerie grace when they enter his room. Despite the hour, the telescope room seems so much colder. The terminals with their flickering blue text are more ominous now she knows the buried truth. His gentle expression is incongruous with the ruthlessness that lurks underneath, like a shark in dark waters. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says by way of greeting, “but I had Chase shadow you. She saw you enter and leave the Nucleus. Did you recover my memories?”  
  
One by one, Kaelyn hands the holotapes over. One by one, DiMA remembers.   
  
One by one, DiMA trembles at his deeds.  
  
She lets him sweat proverbially for a minute before saying, “We’ve recovered the kill switch and launch key. Far Harbor and the Nucleus aren’t going to be destroyed.”  
  
“Oh,” DiMA sighs. “Thank you.”  
  
Kaelyn trades a look with Valentine. His mouth slashes in a thin line across his face and he says, “Not so fast. There’s one more skeleton in this closet. You murdered Captain Avery and planted a synth in her place so you could influence Far Harbor.”  
  
DiMA stares at his brother in horror. “What? No! Give me that.”  
  
So Kaelyn passes him the final holotape. She settles on one leg and folds her arms across her chest. Valentine drags one foot, the sound loud in the quiet observatory. A shaft of light in the center of the room fades as a passing cloud covers the sun, softening the shadows in the room to shades of blue and brown.  
  
DiMA covers his face with his hands. “I— I did it. A human and a synth are both gone because of me. If Far Harbor finds out, they won’t just demand my life. They’ll destroy Acadia. Dozens of innocent lives. Without us, the Fog condensers will fall into disrepair and everyone will die.”  
  
“Do you really think so?” Valentine asks.   
  
In one moment, she can hear Harborfolk scratching their heads and shrugging over Brooks. In the next, she sees Allen Lee and his assault rifle.   
  
DiMA’s opalescent eyes are so very sad. “They were willing to kill the Children of Atom for far less.”  
  
Kaelyn glances towards Valentine, and he cocks his head, just slightly. She sighs. “I already agreed to protect Avery. She’ll be the first to die if this gets out.”  
  
“You are correct.” DiMA retreats, half-turning to take in the room at large. “As horrifying as it might be to suggest, this memory you’ve recovered gives us... a new option. If Far Harbor could be made more tranquil by our intervention, then perhaps the same trick will work twice on the Children of Atom. We could replace Confessor Tektus with someone more—”  
  
All the blood drains from Kaelyn’s face. That odd prickle washes over her cheeks, even if her skin is too dark to show it. She feels hot, then cold, then hot. “No. No!” She stares at him, aghast. “DiMA, you can’t actually— again? You want to replace someone with a synth? _Again?”_  
  
This—isn’t a part of the plan.  
  
Valentine steps past her, touching her shoulder along the way, and she subsides. He says, “DiMA, you said you were allowed to develop your personality based on experience. And you know what the definition of insanity is? Repeating an action and expecting a different outcome. All these data banks can’t free up some space on the old processor to come up with a better plan? You’ve already murdered someone. Unlike yours, my personality is a transplant—of a cop. I can’t let you kill anyone else.”  
  
DiMA’s face softens as he considers Valentine. “Believe me, brother. I wish there was another way. This goes against all of Acadia’s ideals. But if we do nothing, everyone will die. This forces us to consider what serves the greater good.”  
  
Kaelyn’s lip curls. “You’re no better than the Institute, DiMA.” She didn’t bleed to stop the Institute from terrorizing the Commonwealth only to be complicit in this. “The only difference is you feel guilty about it.”  
  
Valentine cuts a glance back at her. “Easy, doll. We’ve still got a chance here for a resolution that doesn’t involve taking a page from the Institute’s book.”  
  
DiMA covers his face with his hands in an unnervingly human gesture. “Maybe you’re right. All the compromises I’ve made without even knowing...”  
  
“Yeah, it’s called willful ignorance for a reason.” But after a moment, Valentine eases up, his expression shifting into something beseeching. “You’ve got a chance now to do things differently. This is your albatross, DiMA. Shoot it and death may gamble on the lives of your people.”  
  
DiMA’s optics slide out of focus, in that distant gaze Kaelyn has learned to recognize as intensive internal processing. Then his face shifts into something akin to a frown. “But if it will bring peace to the island... more people, perhaps everyone, will die if we do not act. If we replace Confessor Tektus with someone willing to forgive Far Harbor, we can work towards reconciling the Children with them.”  
  
She wants to laugh. “It’s so much easier to just be a monster, isn’t it?”  
  
As she knows, it’s easier to be lost in the momentary thrill, guided by nothing but instinct, negating herself in the rush. Kellogg’s self-dug pit of nihilism, Shaun’s willfully-blind justifications, DiMA’s well-intentioned compromises. Kaelyn fled the Commonwealth to escape that, and now DiMA attempts to drag her back with the same excuses Shaun used. If her own son couldn’t persuade her then, nothing on earth can shake her now.  
  
DiMA is still speaking. “—the Confessor’s authority is absolute. The Children won’t see the need for peace unless he... changes his mind.”  
  
“No. Do your own dirty work.” Kaelyn turns on her heel and strides out of Acadia. Over her shoulder, she flings, “If I wanted to decide who’s to be murdered and replaced with a synth, I would have taken the Institute’s bloody directorship!”  She smacks the doors out of the way. They rattle and slam behind her with a satisfying _bang_.

—

Fury drives her past the barricades, through the gates and between the Fog condensers. Today the Fog is violet-tinted where the sun hits it, curling between the branches of the pines high above her head while the sky burns behind it.  
  
The Fog closes around her. It’s a gray-hearted monster that feasts on the island, rippling across the peat, licking at her calves in anticipation of its newest meal. Dour blue-toned light filters through the murky greens and browns, occasionally alleviated by the soft irradiated glow of blight. Clammy air presses around her face, burns cold in her nose. Her lungs fill with its damp, intoxicating chill.  
  
 _Not today,_ she thinks grimly. _You can’t have me._  
  
Her gait shifts to a jog, the Fog rippling away on the air currents, and she _runs,_ feet smacking against peat, branches clawing at her clothes, until her lungs burn and the blood pounding in her ears is from something other than anger. She can feel her heartbeat tremble in the tips of her fingers, her neck, the soles of her feet, radiating heat for the cold forest to snatch away.  
  
Without anger to bolster her, Kaelyn crumples. Palm out, she smacks against the rough bark of a nearby pine. It’s a silent companion as her first cry cuts through the forest.  
  
 _Shaun, I’m so sorry. I can’t do this. I can’t. I wish there had been another way. Dammit, why wasn’t there another way?_  
  
The scabs over her heart itch and crack and weep. With no heed of lurking predators, she gasps around the stone in her chest, doubling over when its weight becomes too much. Tears blur the world to brown and gray, leaving hot streaks down her cold cheeks.   
  
When at last the shakes subside and the ache behind her breastbone recedes to something manageable, Kaelyn drags a sleeve over her face and casts her eyes about. One hand strays to Deliverer, its grip cool and smooth against her skin. She has no idea where she is.  
  
The first rule of being lost in the woods: don’t panic.  
  
 _Okay. Okay. Think._   
  
A task easier said than done with her hot, itchy eyes and throbbing temples. She has to find the road and follow it; it will lead her back to Acadia or Far Harbor. Kaelyn unslings her laser musket from her shoulder, alert for any animals attracted by her racket, and tries to retrace her path. The Fog swallows the evidence of her passage, coating the ground in a soft carpet and curtaining any broken branches from view. Still Kaelyn walks through the ferns, peering this way and that, trying not to be taken in by the subtle colors and mesmerizing tendrils.  
  
A black-gloved hand shoves her into the trunk of a tree. Twists her arm up behind her back, flirting with pain. Kaelyn manages to turn her head enough to see—  
  
Chase.  
  
Her eyes glitter with the restrained violence of a courser. “You said you could have been the Institute’s next director. _Explain.”_  
  
Now, of all times. In another moment Kaelyn might understand the cause for concern, but now grief curls and lashes under skin; it’s a whip desperate for anything to flay besides herself. She draws in a deep breath of the Fog and snarls, “I destroyed the Institute. I did it. I pushed the button. It was _me.”_  
  
Chase presses her back with more force. Bark grinds into Kaelyn’s chest. “You claimed the Institute abducted your son—”  
  
“They _did_ —!”  
  
“And yet you were to be Father’s successor? I never saw you once during my time in the Institute, but you know too much about its inner workings. If you pose the slightest threat to my people here—”  
  
“And you were a courser,” Kaelyn hisses. “What did _you_ do in service of the Institute?”  
  
Her eyes flicker. As good as a flinch from a courser. Her restraining grip neither loosens nor tightens. “Explain this. Now.”  
  
Kaelyn swallows. Resentment burns in the pit of her stomach, stoking her blood to beat fast and loud in her ears. “I sacrificed the last of my family to free all synths. To free every last one of you. Show some gratitude.”  
  
“I will when you prove you have no allegiance to the Institute and pose no threat to Acadia.”  
  
So she grits out: “Shaun was my son. They kidnapped him for his precious DNA. He was the perfect candidate, with parents as a backup in case he died. That’s why he named me his successor.”  
  
Chase’s grip tightens reflexively and Kaelyn bites back a pained noise. For a half-second, shock tightens her facial features. “That’s not possible. Father is an old man while you are—”  
  
Abruptly tired, Kaelyn closes her eyes and rests her cheek against the roughened tree trunk. Sighs. “Can’t it? Because that’s the least strange part of this story. You’re a synthetic human backwards engineered from my son’s DNA. What part of that strikes you as possible, besides the fact that it happened?”  
  
Chase inspects her slowly, thoroughly, and Kaelyn wonders what she sees. The courser releases her. Her coat barely ripples as she steps back. “If you did turn against him to destroy the Institute, then I thank you. It couldn’t have been easy. Losses must have been high.”  
  
Kaelyn shakes herself out and swallows. “Yeah. If you’re satisfied, we should leave. Sooner rather than later.” She swipes a hand through the Fog that wafts in front of her face; she knows what causes her head to ache now.  
  
A lingering moment, then Chase nods with tight eyes and jerks her chin towards a gap between two bent saplings. Kaelyn sets off, but the other woman doesn’t follow, and the muted sounds of her rifling through her belt pouch bounce off the Fog. “One last thing.”  
  
“Yes?” Kaelyn glances behind her—  
  
And that same hand closes over her face. A thick cloth presses against her nose and mouth.  
  
She struggles, tries not to breathe the eye-stinging fumes. But the world grows heavy, heavier still, her brain sinking between her ears.   
  
Then dark.  
  
“I am sorry about this.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: [Various Storms and Saints by Florence + the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-dhpYT37krc).
> 
> There's a big storm coming so I'll post this now in case the power goes out.

The air itself weighs her down. It presses on her chest, her shoulders, her eyes, until she can’t breathe. The pressure imprints it own footprint into her skull. It’s too much.   
  
And yet, sensations. Mouth filled with sand. Eyes replaced with lead marbles. Eyelids soldered shut.  
  
Wrists bound to the table.  
  
Realization jolts along her aching nerves, piercing the sharp-tanged fog. As she twists, she discovers the restraints are padded.  
  
Something rests on her brow. Sounds swim in the distance, slow and lazy, like whales in the deep. “Shh. Fear not. This won’t hurt.”  
  
Instead of soothing, it sends another jolt through her. That lukewarm hand is wrong, somehow. It should be steel, not plastic.   
  
“Are you sure... risks are high enough...”  
  
The air swims and she drifts through it, carried on the eddies that seek to drown her. Little noises prick her ears: soft footsteps, plinking water, and the whine of a terminal.  
  
“—ready to begin the procedure.”  
  
What’s left of the world swirls into a deep blue that swallows her whole.

—

Her slide into awareness is like a tide washing to shore, then receding into the ocean’s depths. Sounds come and go, flying above her on soft wings. Bubbles of thought rise to the surface and burst before they can make sense.   
  
Pain nestles in the base of her skull. Her head splits at the seams, peeling along her hairline, down her nape. Her mouth isn’t dry. No, dry would be better than the swampy monstrosity that glues her tongue to her palate. The air she drags through her nose is too sharp and clear, as if her nose has been burned.  
  
Nearby there’s a rustle and a soft, “Oh.”  
  
Opening her eyes yields only pain. Her second attempt fares better: she glimpses a blur to her left, and her eyes focus on a squirming figure with an unruly mop of white hair.  
  
Kaelyn squints up at him, and not just because harsh light reflects off his hair. “I know you...”  
  
He swallows, nods. “I— I’m Derrick. You rescued me from those—”  
  
Ah. Now she remembers. She gives him a more thorough once-over, pleased to note his clean hair and fresh clothes. There are hollows under his eyes that will be there for some time, she suspects, but his face doesn’t look quite so gaunt.   
  
Reaching out, Kaelyn manages to pat his wrist despite her hand’s unwillingness to cooperate. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything more. Where are we?”  
  
Derrick latches onto the topic change with too much enthusiasm. “Acadia, ma’am!” Kaelyn winces at the volume and he whispers, chastened, “Sorry.”  
  
Letting her eyes fall closed, she shifts on the gurney. The mattress is hot at her back, long since warmed by her body heat.  
  
“Do you want some water?”  
  
With the reminder, Kaelyn’s mouth feels worse than ever. Her throat burns. “Yes, thank you.”  
  
She has to swirl and spit out her first sip; her mouth tastes _revolting,_ beyond the sticky tang of mere dehydration. Then she drains the glass in three seconds and accepts the queasiness in her stomach as a fair price. Rubbing her stiff neck, she traces the spots of pain behind her ears. An unusual place for a headache, but she isn’t usually this dehydrated, either.  
  
“What happened, Derrick?”  
  
“I didn’t see it, but they said you ran out of Acadia and got lost. DiMA sent out search parties to help your partner find you. Good thing he did or you might be...” His chin quavers. “There’s all kinds of dangers out there. As you—probably already know.”  
  
Closing her eyes, Kaelyn wills the memories to come back. She and Valentine came to speak to DiMA. About his contingencies hidden on the island. Avery. And his terrible plan. The anger rises quickly, flavored with indignation.  
  
And then she remembers Shaun.  
  
A pang of grief tightens her chest and she feels the ghostly feel of bark under palm. Kaelyn lifts her hand, turning it this way and that under the lights, bending it at the wrist. Not a single mark. She doesn’t remember how she got here, or who found her. Most likely she owes Valentine yet another packet of cigarettes; he’s caught her several times recently. But underneath her internal bravado lies a nauseous twist in her gut. No matter how she wracks her brain, it only conjures gray.  
  
The kind of gray she’s grown a little too well-acquainted with since arriving in Far Harbor.  
  
Blind to her worry, Derrick asks, “When you were in the Fog, did you ever see shapes?”  
  
Weaseling an elbow beneath her does not, in fact, enable Kaelyn to lift herself up. “I’m sorry?”  
  
“When I ran, I saw—things. Shadows looming from all sides.”  
  
After another moment, Kaelyn abandons her attempt to remember. “There’s more than trees in the Fog. Decrepit houses, improvised dwellings, that sort of thing. If you don’t know what you’re looking at, it can take on a life of its own.”   
  
A rational explanation, but she wonders.  
  
Derrick is likewise subdued, his delicate mouth tipping into a frown, and he almost jumps out of his skin when the clinic door scrapes open to admit Valentine.   
  
“Hey, kid could you clear the floor? I need to have a chat with our friend here.”  
  
Derrick is out the door in a flash of white, throwing a quick goodbye over his shoulder.   
  
It isn’t until Valentine is planted in Derrick’s seat, drumming his fingers on his knee, that he tilts his head up and Kaelyn’s breath catches. His eyes blaze with anger. Voice dangerously soft, he asks, “Just what on earth were you thinking, running off like that? Haven’t you learned a damn thing?”  
  
Under his anger is disappointment. Somehow, that’s worse.  
  
Curling in a ball and shutting out the world has never looked more tempting than it does in this moment. Or flicking on a stealth boy to hide from his consternation. “After what DiMA said— I had to get out. Walk it off.”  
  
“If that was it, you could have run laps up around Acadia.” Drawing in a sharp breath through his nose, Valentine massages the spot between his non-existent eyebrows. “Just tell me why.”  
  
Kaelyn presses two fingers to the base of her skull, in the center of the ache. “I... don’t remember.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s what the Fog does to you. Turns you upside down; makes you not yourself. Dammit, Kaelyn. You told me you weren’t going to let it get to you anymore.”  
  
She wracks her brain for something, anything, that can explain what happened. “I didn’t go out there to forget my problems, I— I know that much. I was angry, and it all—reminded me of Shaun.”  
  
Valentine tips his head up to count the cracks in the ceiling. “What can I possibly say that will convince you to use your common sense? Nothing I’ve said so far has stuck. So tell me, what can I do to convince you?”  
  
“You don’t believe me.” Her words spill in a breathy rush.   
  
A slanted look. “Based on what I’ve seen so far, the evidence ain’t stacked in your favor.” Then Valentine’s on his feet, striding to the door. “Rest up.”  
  
He doesn’t believe her.  
  
Dragging her knees up to her chest, Kaelyn calls to his back, “Nick, I’m sorry.”  
  
On the threshold, he pauses. But doesn’t turn around. “Sorry ain’t going to cut it for much longer. You’re going to kill yourself. Can’t you see that?”  
  
As it turns out, her knees make a poor shield against Valentine’s words.

—

Since Faraday evidently feels Kaelyn doesn’t need his attention, she deems herself fit to leave once she can sit up without being overwhelmed by stars. Or tears. Untaping the IV, she slides the needle out of her hand with a grimace and hangs up the tube on the pole. Stretching as thoroughly as she can earns several painful cracks in her joints, but eases some of the stiffness in her neck. Her headache is a dull, persistent companion.  
  
Someone stripped her down to her shirt and underwear, so Kaelyn embarks on a quest to find pants. Thankfully, her belongings sit on a shelf across the room, and digging through her satchel yields success. Praying Valentine is talking to DiMA or somesuch, she collects her gear and leaves the clinic with minimal wobbling.  
  
Chase leans on her usual spot against a wall in the common area, perking up when she spies Kaelyn. “It’s good to see you’re finally awake.”  
  
“Finally?”  
  
Chase inspects her from the crown of her head to her sockless boots. “DiMA requested I find you before you came to harm in the Fog. But you were in the clinic for much longer than I expected. How are you?”  
  
“Tired.”  
  
Chase nods. “It’s to be expected. Humans can be surprisingly hardy, as I’ve learned, but the Fog is your greatest enemy here. I must apologize for being so rough with you.”  
  
Kaelyn tilts her head. There isn’t any point trying to recall it herself. “Rough? How were you rough with me? I… don’t remember.”  
  
Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. “I see. I interrogated you on your connection to the Institute, even when it was clear you were... distraught. And then I incapacitated you to bring you back as swiftly as possible.”  
  
That explains a thing or two. “Oh. Well. Thanks for the rescue, I guess.”  
  
There’s no point putting it off any longer. Kaelyn climbs the stairs to the telescope room, but it’s occupied only by DiMA and Faraday. They stand together, their whispers skittering across the floor like fearful mice. DiMA glances towards the door; Faraday follows his gaze and his eyes go so wide Kaelyn can see the whites from here.  
  
DiMA turns to her with a smile of welcome while Faraday disappears behind a bay of terminals with hardly a wave. “Ah, I see you have awakened. I hope you are recovering.”  
  
Unease slithers in Kaelyn’s gut like sea serpents in icy waters, navigating the treacherous currents with a flick of their ribboning fins. “Just a few bangs and dents. Nothing unusual at this point.”  
  
“Good.” DiMA pauses. “Perhaps it is premature to ask, but have you reconsidered your stance on… tranquilizing the Children of Atom?”  
  
A rush of anger takes away the ache in her head, and she welcomes the distraction. “No, I _haven’t_ given it any more thought. Firstly, I’ve been passed out in the clinic for who knows how long. Secondly, there’s nothing to reconsider.” Her words come out sharper than she intended. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she says, “Look. I’m sorry. I don’t want to start an argument, especially given how well that worked out last time. I need to find Valentine.”  
  
“As you wish. But we still need a way to bring peace to the island, and soon.” With a bow of his head, DiMA retreats to a slice of shadow across the room. But the terminals loom, rows upon rows of blue screens like so many eyes, curdling an inexplicable dread in her gut.

—

Kaelyn slumps in her room at The Last Plank, her cheek pressed against the slanted writing desk. With a flick of her fingers, she sends the nuclear launch key rolling up the desk until gravity drags it back down. Her memories of October 23, 2077, lurk behind her eyes. Of the grand mushroom cloud and the sky on fire. Of the Prydwen. Of the Institute. The pain and, more importantly, the guilt is necessary as she watches the key roll up and down.  
  
She can do it again. Third time’s the charm.  
  
What is it Nate told her once? _Violence is easy_. At the time, she hadn’t understood what he meant. And later, after the world ended, every life she took hung around her neck, dragging behind her on a heavy chain anchored to her heart. Sometimes she still freezes up when a gun is pointed in her direction or an explosion shakes the earth.  
  
But singlehandedly staving off a war between Far Harbor and Acadia, between Far Harbor and the Nucleus is—exhausting.   
  
She is so tired.  
  
Now all she needs is Tektus to demand Acadia burn for their so-called heresy of radiation immunity. Just to make this a true three-way fight.  
  
The door handle rattles, then the brass hinges creak. Just as effective as a warning knock. Valentine’s hand brushes her hair—and retreats at her flinch with inhuman speed. “Have you eaten?”  
  
“Yeah.” The lie burns, a little, but right now the only thing worse than Valentine’s anger is his concern. The launch key rolls up the table and back down to her hand.  
  
The bedsprings groan then quieten to a sulky whimper as he settles, just visible in her peripheral vision. “We need to figure out a way forward. One that doesn’t involve doing our best impression of the Institute.”  
  
The key reaches the top of the writing desk, teetering on the edge before physics win, as they must, and drive it into Kaelyn’s waiting palm. Her fingers snap closed around it, feeling its contours, its weight. Its power should scare her. “You’re right. Sitting here moping isn’t going to solve anything.”  
  
“Let’s puzzle this out, then: the Children of Atom are the biggest threat right now, to both Acadia and Far Harbor. DiMA,” the briefest pause, “thinks Tektus is the lynch pin here. But any harm that comes to him only makes him a martyr. That’s the last thing anyone needs.”  
  
“Tektus is the ultimate authority in there. People obey him out of fervor or fear.” The chair drags across the rickety floorboards as she stands. A long, drawn out sound. “I’ll go back to the Nucleus and think of something.”  
  
 _“We’ll_ think of something,” Valentine corrects.  
  
“I’m going alone, Nick. The Children of Atom won’t permit you into the Nucleus.” Whether he likes it or not, these are the facts of the case. Finding her boots, Kaelyn shoves her feet into them and drops a spare fusion core into her satchel.  
  
“Still going to walk you as far as I can.” Valentine is by no means pleased with this arrangement, but he knows that a synth walking into the Nucleus will ignite the very war they’re trying to avert. “And just what are you planning?”  
  
“To finish this.” Kaelyn grabs her jacket, slings both rifles over her shoulder and steps out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Mr Ninja Pineapple for betaing this chapter!

Kaelyn arrives amidst a flurry of preparations in the Nucleus. Children mill on the catwalk around the Vessel, lifting their arms in prayer. The launch key is heavy in her pocket, made of black lead that has absorbed all the fear and despair of a dead world.  
  
Sister Mai’s face lights up when she sees Kaelyn. “You’re back, and just in time!”  
  
And so Kaelyn attends her first scouring.  
  
Clad only in trousers and a bra, she stands in line with the others: the High Confessor at the head of the procession, with the Grand Zealot as his second—a sign of status, or to protect Tektus’s exposed back?—all the way down to the Archemist who imposes order at the rear. Those without Atom’s blessing take their place behind Richter, while those unaffected by radiation hang towards the back of the line. Kaelyn is sandwiched between Devin and Ware, the former excited for the ritual and the latter a steady bulk behind her.  
  
Confessor Tektus, minus his headdress, takes the Children down the concrete corridors of the base, leading the prayers they chant in time with their steps. Unlike the rest of the Nucleus, there are no bottle lights flickering in the corners, but the occasional gas lamp. Decontamination arches flank the entrance of a room, spraying cold—and pure—water to wash away the worst of the grime coating their bodies before they step inside.  
  
Lanterns sit in the corners, throwing their dim yellow glow under the lavish decorations: rich banners cover the walls, trapping in heat and moisture, while strings of empty light bulbs dangle from the ceiling. Benches have been draped in cloth and covered with small offerings. Kaelyn looks twice and notices a row of shower heads along the wall, peeking out between the drapes. In the center of the room is a spot slick with algae, next to a drum filled with water. A clay pitcher bobs on the surface.  
  
The bathroom is all but unrecognizable.  
  
“Of mighty Atom, we beg forgiveness for our sins today. As we scour away Your Glow, so do we scour away our inadequacies as we prepare to embrace You anew with clear hearts.” Tektus scoops up the pitcher of water and pours it over his head. He then turns to face the procession, flinging his arms up. “Glory to Atom!”  
  
“Glory to Atom!”  
  
One by one, the Children kneel before Tektus to be scoured. When it’s Kaelyn’s turn, she goes to one knee, hunching over to protect her vulnerable middle and bows her head. Tektus pours the water over her head with enough care that it doesn’t drip into her eyes but instead runs down the back of her neck. It isn’t water at all, she discovers, but an oily liquid that makes her skin prickle in the cold air. Taking her cues from those who went before her, Kaelyn rubs it along her arms, her shoulders, her stomach and legs. It leaves a fine film over her skin. A drain near her right knee collects any spillage.  
  
“Rise, my child, and let yourself be transformed inside and out.”  
  
“Glory to Atom,” she murmurs.  
  
At the back of the room, under a row of shower heads, a crude hip-high pool has been constructed. Devin helps her over the high edge, and she bathes with the others. The anti-rad brew doesn’t wash off so easily, and perhaps the word _scouring_ is more literal than Kaelyn previously thought. At least she isn’t the only one who has to fully submerge herself to get the stuff out of her hair.  
  
When she steps out of the pool, the Archemist holds out a threadbare towel—and pauses. Above her surgical mask, her watery gray eyes alight on Kaelyn’s belly. “Ah. So that is why our lady revealed herself to you.”  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
Towel forgotten, the Archemist runs a fingernail along the stretch marks that ribbon over the soft flesh of Kaelyn’s stomach. Every instinct shrieks to slap away her hand, to cover the marks, to hide the unwanted reminder carved into her body. But her body has changed in other ways, too: the added thickness at her hips, the slight sag of her breasts. Signs that cannot be hidden from an experienced eye such as the Archemist’s.  
  
Now a dozen pairs of curious eyes watch, including Mai and even Richter. Whispers run a circuit of the room. With so many people present, the air has since grown balmy, but goosebumps pebble over Kaelyn’s arms.  
  
“What is this?” The Confessor himself approaches, and the crowd melts away for him like ice before a flame.  
  
A quiet instinct makes Kaelyn go still under Tektus’s assessing gaze. Silence hangs in the humid air, hot and thick and stifling. Everyone watches her now.  
  
The Archemist bows her head. “A mystery solved, Confessor. There are some things only a mother can understand. Like knows its like.”

—

In the flurry of worship and exultant praise after the scouring is over, some Children run right away to Mai’s modified decontamination system to douse themselves in fresh Glow. Arms uplifted, they chant praises to Atom as the jets spray irradiated mist onto them.  
  
The only transformation Kaelyn feels on the inside is a fresh headache. She makes a quick escape back to her belongings, trying to ignore the hush that spreads when she passes by, or the prickle at the back of her neck when someone watches her. One man steps out of her way with wide eyes, murmuring something about the Mother’s chosen, and tries to touch the hem of her robe when her back is turned. Her dog tags and wedding rings are safe in her satchel, as is the nuclear launch key. But no matter how many layers she dresses in, she feels exposed.  
  
Kaelyn sits alone on the stairs, nursing fresh ambivalence and the headache that has since migrated to her temples. It’s bothered her on and off all day, piercing enough to distract but not so severe to warrant medication. She traces the shape of the launch key in her pocket. At the sound of heavy footsteps behind her, her hand recoils as if burned.  
  
“Your absence was noted at the evening meal.” Ware comes to a halt in her peripheral.  
  
His out of character wording gives her pause, then it clicks. “Tell them I was praying alone.”  
  
“Not a problem.” Ware lowers himself to the ground beside her with a creak of armor. She almost believes he’s here just for the company when he says, “You never mentioned a kid.”  
  
Her fingers clench around the launch key until it bites her hand hard enough to leave a mark, no matter the layers of fabric separating them. “There’s a reason for that.”  
  
With a sigh, Ware props his rifle on the step by his feet. “I’m sorry.”  
  
For some reason it all comes tumbling out. “It was a nuclear explosion. Most people around here would say that’s a noble way to—” She draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “They would say I should be proud that he achieved Division. What do you think?”  
  
And just how offended would Shaun, a man of science, be at this absurd belief?  
  
Ware makes a low noise in his throat as he considers. “I think it’s something worth grieving, no matter what anyone else believes.” He holds out a bottle. “Here. We don’t need the scouring, but it’ll give you a kick.”  
  
Kaelyn takes three quick gulps of the proffered bottle. It’s not half as foul as Bovrov’s Best. Despite its sharp tang, the aftertaste is almost sweet, like honey coating her teeth. She’s also certain there’s a shot of vodka in there. “Thank you.”  
  
“No problem, sister.”  
  
For every Richter, there’s a Ware.  
  
The launch key in her pocket grows heavier as they share the bottle. When it’s empty, they go to their separate beds to wait for morning. After a simple breakfast, Kaelyn enters the Vessel and drops to one knee before Tektus.  
  
In her pocket, the launch key digs into her thigh.  
  
Tektus acknowledges her at once. “Glory to Atom, my child.” But when she rises, he appraises her with sharp eyes, lingering on her middle.  
  
She pushes back the discomfort. “I have been remiss in my duties here. I wish to serve the family, if you would do me the honor.” The word _family_ burns a little coming out, but her voice barely wavers. Just as with the Institute, she seeks to ingratiate herself to be above suspicion, even though she knows she’ll probably regret volunteering.  
  
That earns a twitch of Tektus’s mouth. “Eager, I see. Rumors have reached my ears of treachery in the family. Investigate this person for any designs against Atom, myself or the family.” He writes something on a scrap piece of paper, folds it in half, and bequeaths it to her.  
  
In a quiet corner, Kaelyn peeks at the note. _Aubert_.  
  
She needs directions from the nearest zealot to find this Aubert, as she has no idea who they are. The woman in question resides in the previously unseen depths of the Vessel, and notices an intruder in her midst immediately. Her dark hair has fallen out in uneven clumps, leaving white patches of her head to gleam in the low light, and her robes are rumpled. “If you’re looking for the crypt, you took a wrong turn. My job to take care of this place. You touch anything, I take the limb. Understand?”  
  
“Absolutely.” Curiosity leads Kaelyn to ask, “Why is the crypt down here? Wouldn’t there be more room in the rest of the base?”  
  
Aubert wipes her hands on a cloth. “Keeps our fallen brethren close to His Glow, near their family. A true honor denied to too many. Meet something in the Fog? Sorry, brother. Lost to the family. Wander too close to a settlement? Lost to the family. Look at Tektus the wrong way, Atom help—” she freezes. “I have work to do. You should go.”  
  
Since Kaelyn has no idea where anything is, she finds a quiet corner to lurk in, hitting her stealth boy when warning footsteps stroll by. At last Aubert slinks away from her post into what looks like a sleeping area, then strolls down the corridor to a closed bulkhead. She disappears inside for almost ten minutes, then reappears. Kaelyn presses against the wall as she passes, hoping the last rippling burst from her stealth boy will be enough, but the woman is too engrossed in her thoughts to notice anything amiss.  
  
Truth be told, it takes Kaelyn the rest of the morning to find a moment to sneak into the storage room without being noticed by a patrol. Aside from a few crates of pre-war equipment, there’s a footlocker underneath several baskets of homespun cloth. It’s locked, of course, but yields to her screwdriver and bobby pin. Inside it lie a number of letters; the lower they are in the pile, the flatter and more yellowed they become. The topmost one reads:

> _Edgar,_  
>  _Grand Zealot Richter says it was an accident. You wandered off alone and he couldn’t get to you in time..._  
>    
>  _He’s lying._  
>    
>  _None of them will ever admit to it, but this was Tektus. He had you killed because he’s terrified of Martin. Because Tektus knows Martin was the only one worthy of running this family._  
>    
>  _Atom above, I need you, Edgar. You’d tell me what to do. What keeps coming to mind I know is a bad idea._  
>    
>  _Until we’re together again,_  
>  _Aubert_

Slipping the incriminating letter into her bra, Kaelyn presses her fingers into her breastbone and considers her options. She decides on writing a letter of her own and leaves it in the footlocker.  
  
At the appointed time—an hour before dinner, when there is a rush of cooking and last-minute prayers—Kaelyn takes to the catwalk above the sub to wait.  
  
This would make an excellent sniper’s nest. Richter stands guard near the Vessel’s entrance with no nearby cover. It would have to be a head shot; his armor looks formidable enough that it might shave the lethality from a .50 round. No, best not risk him surviving an assassination attempt. However, the High Confessor’s podium is protected by the entrance to the sub. The only shot to be made would be when he is entering or leaving the Vessel.  
  
Kaelyn leans against the wall near the door. When there’s a shuffle of footsteps from the room inside and a quiet curse, she switches on a fresh stealth boy. Only after Aubert reaches the far side of the catwalk, scanning the area with a pinched expression, does Kaelyn switch it off.  
  
Aubert jumps. “You startled— _you_. Look, about the note— I didn’t mean—”  
  
Kaelyn presses a finger to her lips and withdraws a notebook and pen from her belt pouch. Gesturing Aubert over, she holds up the note she’s already written.  
  
_Before you panic, I’m not going to turn you in to the Confessor. You deserve to know he’s the one who sent me to investigate you. I don’t know if anything I can say will sway him, but I’ll try to convince him you’re not a threat._  
  
With trembling hands, Aubert snatches the pen away. _Why?_  
  
_Because Tektus is choking the life out of not only the family, but the whole island. People will die on all sides if he isn’t challenged or convinced what he’s doing is wrong._  
  
_Dangerous words, sister. He had my Edgar murdered for being friends with the old Confessor._  
  
_Hence why we must be careful. Do you know of any other malcontents?_  
  
Aubert scowls. _I only have your word that you won’t give me up. Give back my letter._  
  
Kaelyn plucks it from her shirt with two fingers and holds it out. After ascertaining it is the real letter, Aubert tears it to pieces and drops the remnants into one of the bottle lights, where the paper dissolves at the touch of irradiated water.  
  
_I’ll make my report to Tektus, then we’ll talk more?_  
  
Aubert hesitates.  
  
Kaelyn scrawls, _I can’t do this alone. For the good of the family._  
  
_It isn’t just Tektus. Richter is his dog—and he’s just as dangerous, if not more so. But after. Talk after._  
  
Page by page, Kaelyn tears up the their conversation and destroys it as Aubert did. Then she returns to Tektus to deliver the news of Aubert’s unswayed loyalty to the family.  
  
Tektus cannot conceal his flicker of surprise and—yes, there’s the disappointment, visible only because she anticipates it. “Really? Hmm. Well, you’ve nonetheless lifted a weight from my shoulders.”  
  
Kaelyn doesn’t know if he believes her. “Is it not a relief that the family is unified, and no one is disloyal? Are you not glad no one has to be punished?”  
  
“Yes, of course.” Tektus’s flagging jowls wobble as he says, “However, the family’s well-being is my utmost responsibility. You must understand my inclination to worry for them. Not all of the family have the Mother’s hand upon them as you do.”  
  
That gives her pause.  
  
On her way out of the Vessel, Kaelyn’s thigh jars against the wall, banging the launch key. No, there are problems that don’t require the nuclear option to solve. And she now has an inkling of how.

—

Confessor Tektus grants Kaelyn permission to leave the Nucleus again with a wry chuckle. “A restless spirit, are we? Go then, my child, with Atom’s grace. Spread His light.”  
  
Kaelyn’s power armor sits in its protected nook a short distance from the Nucleus, and she makes the trip to Acadia in record time. Valentine leans beside Chase in the common room. He stands at the sight of her, excusing himself from the conversation.  
  
Kaelyn’s heart clenches and twists at the sight of him. Underneath the hurt, or maybe because of the hurt, her stomach flutters at his approach. He looks unchanged in his fedora and trench coat, and she could almost believe he’s as chipper as ever. Realizing that she’s staring, Kaelyn clears her throat. “Good to see you.”  
  
“Likewise. Wasn’t expecting you back this soon. Is it over already? Didn’t catch any explosions, so I take it the launch key is still safe.”  
  
She nods. “I have a plan, maybe. But I want to run it by you first. I don’t... trust my moral judgment.”  
  
His eyes flicker, but he says, “Alright. Hit me with what you’ve got.”  
  
“Tektus is grinding the Children under his heel. Obey him or face the consequences. And his Grand Zealot, Richter, is in his pocket. He’ll kill anyone Tektus orders him to.”  
  
Valentine nods slowly, affirming what they already know. “So what’s your plan?”  
  
“Killing Tektus makes him a martyr _unless_ it looks like Atom punished him for wrongdoing. If it comes from the inside—a coup, maybe—no one can blame Far Harbor or Acadia. Look, there are enough Children out for blood, but without the High Confessor fanning the flames they might calm down. Tektus doesn’t need to die. He just needs to be _gone_. Or somehow convinced Atom’s will is for peace.”  
  
“If the Children latch onto Tektus’s every word, or at least pretend to, how are you going to evict him from his seat of power? Or are you planning on talking him down?”  
  
Kaelyn draws in a breath to bolster herself. “By using the Mother of the Fog. People get real quiet when they hear about that vision. Hallucination. Whatever it was. Point is, they believe it was important. If I tell them the Mother gave me a sign, they might just buy it.”  
  
“The thing about religious signs is that you can claim it, but so can Tektus.” Valentine presses his mouth into a hard line. “Someone else could make up another so-called vision as they please. And this is their religion we’re talking about. Faking a sign from their god? It doesn’t sit right.”  
  
Kaelyn heaves a sigh and rubs circles on her temples, willing the ache away. Guilt stirs in her stomach, and she makes no attempt to quash it. “I know. But what choice do we have at this point? It’s that or replace Tektus with a synth.”  
  
“Morality ain’t relative, but this still beats DiMA’s idea. Peace without bloodshed is worth a shot. If you can talk the Confessor down, more power to ya.” Valentine reaches out to her shoulder, but aborts the gesture halfway. “Whatever you do, be careful. You’re playing with a cult. If Tektus wills it, they’ll turn on you. And this Richter sounds like his top enforcer. Don’t underestimate him.”  
  
“I won’t. Thanks, Nick.” There’s more to say, the words pressing behind her breastbone, but no matter how she tries, they won’t rise to her tongue. Valentine, too, is intent on her, about to speak, but something over her shoulder catches his attention.  
  
“Psst. I need to talk to you! Just you!”  
  
It’s no one but Derrick, leaning around a door frame, his eyes darting and frantic. He motions Kaelyn to follow him into a nearby storeroom with a jerky gesture. Since Derrick has always been skittish, she gives Valentine an apologetic shrug and follows. The kid flinches even though he’s the one who slams the door shut.  
  
Kaelyn turns to face him where he presses back against the door. “Hey, Derrick. You’re looking a little agitated. What’s wrong? How can I help?”  
  
He lets out a reedy stream of air, deflating into a tense line. “I was helping Faraday file some project reports on his terminal and— I saw— the logs—”  
  
“Hey, hey,” Kaelyn soothes. “Easy there. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on. What did you find?”  
  
Derrick’s wide eyes land on her, not only appalled and fearful but—pitying. That, more than anything else, is what coils the unease in her gut.  
  
“When they brought you back from the Fog, they—did something to you. Faraday and DiMA.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Mr Ninja Pineapple for betaing!

The last time Kaelyn broke into Faraday’s terminal, she had been appalled by what she found.  
  
This time it’s an entirely different experience.  
  
She can’t stop shaking. The trembles start deep in her chest, radiating outward to her shoulders, her knees, her fingers. Blood whispers in her ears, then roars. A nerveless hand drags over her face as pressure builds at the base of her skull.  
  
They’ve been under her skin, inside her very head.  
  
Kaelyn blinks and realizes she’s climbing the stairs two at a time, each step a blow that tightens her nerves. Fear halts her in the doorway of the telescope room, trapping her feet on the threshold. Air catches in her chest, imprisoned by constricting rib and tissue, while a prickle of sweat dampens her face.  
  
DiMA notices her first. He and Faraday stand at one of the terminals at the far side of the observatory. Something makes him look up, the bulbs and cables at the back of his head jangling with the movement, absurdly loud in the quiet. Then Faraday follows, his reaction time constrained by flesh and neurological impulses.  
  
Kaelyn can’t breathe. Fear drives a spike of ice through her chest. But then a deeper, more primal kind of fear takes its place and forces her feet to move.  
  
DiMA retreats to the dais at the center of the room, in the rectangle of light that burns away the smell of mold to replace it with warm plastic. He looks so _sad,_ regret leadening his limbs, his hands slack at his sides. The old synth with the world hanging from his shoulders.  
  
Faraday hovers behind his shoulder with dawning apprehension, drawing Kaelyn’s attention. His throat bobs. “I— I’m sorry, but why are you looking at me like that?”  
  
A whisper at first, climbing to a snarl. “You know why. _Get out.”_  
  
Clutching his clipboard to his chest, Faraday draws in a deep breath and leaves as quickly as he can without shifting his gait to a run.  
  
DiMA makes an unhappy noise. “That is not necessary. I know you must be confused and angry, but please do not take it out on Faraday. He merely followed my directions.”  
  
“He had a choice. So did you.” Her voice is so thick in her throat she chokes. “What did you do to me?”  
  
The words from the log ghost across her mind’s eye, at once looming inches from her head yet too distant to touch. She needs to hear it from him. She needs to know if it’s true.  
  
“You have not been forthright with us, and you must understand why your connection to the Institute’s Directorate would be cause for alarm. Coupled with your… investigative skills, shall we say, I needed to know for certain your intentions for Acadia.”  
  
Kaelyn coils, wrapping her arms around her ribs, then realizes what a display of vulnerability it is. She drops her hands to hover by her sides. Everything she’s done for synths, everything she’s done to oppose the Institute, oppose her _own son,_ and _this_ is how they repay her?  
  
DiMA continues softly, “So I delved into your memory to ascertain your affiliation. Browsed, if you will. None of your memories were modified. That was not our purpose, and too risky to attempt such a procedure on a human. I did question Nick, first, after you... exited the conversation, but he said it was your personal business.”  
  
A laugh bubbles in her chest, like a bottle of Nuka-Cola shaken to bursting, and she presses her fingers to her mouth lest hysteria overwhelm her. “There are easier ways to ask, DiMA.”  
  
His pearly eyes brim with that damned pity. “I admit, I never expected to meet anyone older than me.”  
  
Every memory she owns, pried out and reviewed like a pre-war TV show. Worse, she doesn’t know which memories they touched, tarnished, tainted. Her old life: her family, law school, Nate and Sanctuary Hills. Vault 111. Kellogg and the Institute. Shaun and the developmental origins of third generation synths—and the Railroad. Every scrap of intel she possesses, graced by her position as one of their best heavies, now compromised. Every agent, every face, every safe house she knows and Old North Church—  
  
Maybe she hasn’t always wanted them, but they’re _hers._  
  
“I didn’t get lost in the Fog, did I? You lied to Nick about that too, sent Chase—” A stab of pain lances Kaelyn, somewhere to the right of her heart. The betrayal simmers in her gut, roiling together with sudden resentment.  
  
DiMA holds out a hand, and she recoils. “Please, do not blame her. My instructions were to peacefully subdue you and bring you back to Acadia. She did not know what I intended.”  
  
Running a hand through her hair, Kaelyn wants to hold her resentment flush against her chest, a shield to protect herself against any further invasions. But something eases, just a little, knowing that Chase hadn’t been in on it.  
  
“I also misunderstood the nature of your relationship with my brother.” A delicate pause. “While it may not be a… typical arrangement, I would welcome you as family. You both have my best wishes.”  
  
Her face prickles with cold, then a flush of anger heats her cheeks. At least her skin is too dark to show it. “You—” she chokes. “That’s private, you son of a—”  
  
“If you wish to be technical, I have no parents. Please, you must know I didn’t linger on memories that weren’t relevant to the answers I sought.”  
  
Today her headache is a gnawing companion that bores into her skull just above her left eyebrow. It flares now in time with her rhythmless anger. Kaelyn presses two fingers to the spot and wonders. They’d never bothered her before that day she went into the Fog. “And that’s supposed to make me feel _better?”_  
  
“You deserve that much.” DiMA’s softness doesn’t relent under the heat of her baleful expression—and she wishes he would snap back and give her something to latch onto. “We are not so different, you and I. Did you not work from the shadows to secure your victory against the Institute? Have you not made compromises, sacrificed pieces of your better self for your cause?”  
  
“That’s different,” Kaelyn’s shoulders bunch. “That was war. It was for—”  
  
DiMA considers her and she wants to hide from those pearly, inhuman eyes. His expression is wooden, sending a thrill of unease up her spine. “The greater good.”  
  
She flinches at the blow. Striking swift and sure, it cleaves through her every justification and excuse to pierce her heart. She’s the one who infiltrated the Institute. Snooped around Acadia on multiple occasions. Right now, she’s pretending to adhere to a faith that turns her stomach, making a mockery of those who genuinely believe.   
  
But—no. DiMA’s morals don’t keep his actions in check, don’t keep him up at night when he crosses the line.  
  
“Don’t you _dare_ —” Catching herself, she chokes back her indignation. Her next words are begrudging, like stones pulled from the mud of a pond. “You can’t see a path to peace without removing Tektus. Maybe you’re right.” With realization comes clarity: appealing to Acadia’s lofty ideals may yield better results than demanding he repay his debt to her. “But if he has to die, let him die honestly. Not—like this. We can’t jump straight to the nuclear option without even trying to find a peaceful resolution. You have to be better than the Institute, DiMA. And you have to make up for what you’ve done.”  
  
He blinks, expression shifting to something akin to a frown. “I have considered all other options and found they carry higher risks of failure. If our hand is revealed, the Children will burn Acadia and Far Harbor.”  
  
Kaelyn takes a tentative step forward, raising a hand not to touch him—no, she doesn’t want to be within arm’s reach of him—but to implore him. “I don’t know what justice is, not anymore, but we can make this right without resorting to another murder. Please. If not for me, then for Nick.”  
  
DiMA’s gaze lowers. His silence is brief yet weighty. “After Nick said... I did rearrange the data flow in the array. Perhaps it might be possible to generate another solution. Did you have any suggestions after your time with the Children?”  
  
It takes a moment to sink in that her persuasion actually worked, even if her skin crawls under his expectant gaze. “Tektus is as bad to his own people as he is to Far Harbor and Acadia. As long as they believe his is the will of Atom, they’ll follow him. Like you said, the Children believe the Fog is holy—a sign they have a right to the island. What you might not know is they also believe in some kind of specter. The Mother of the Fog. They also believe I’m touched by her.”  
  
That first day in the Nucleus, Kaelyn answered Tektus’s question incorrectly—but he also betrayed one important detail about the Fog.  
  
So now she asks, “Do you have data on the Fog’s movements over the years? Could you use that to project how it might naturally recede?”  
  
“Yes,” he nods, “yes, I can do that. But I admit I don’t completely follow your idea. You plan to use the Fog and this portent of theirs to convince them to stand down?”  
  
“If the Fog recedes seemingly of its own accord, that’s a sign from Atom they cannot ignore. If I say the Mother spoke of peace, they might just listen.”  
  
Again with that unnerving quasi-frown. “Yes, but the Fog may not recede naturally for years.”  
  
“Unless we help it along.” Kaelyn arches an eyebrow. “Can you modify the Fog condensers to be easily hidden, maybe planted underground, and set them in strategic places on the island? Around Far Harbor, at least?”  
  
“If even one were discovered, the Children would know of Acadia’s hand in this.” He sighs at her arch look and relents. “But I can attempt and test the redesign. This will not pacify Tektus—he may grow more desperate.”  
  
“Only if Tektus isn’t convinced. And in that case, only if he’s still High Confessor.”  
  
DiMA has no eyebrows to raise, but the look he gives her is inquiring enough.  
  
“I won’t kill him, not if I don’t have to, but power doesn’t suit him. There’s enough discontent in the Nucleus that I have a chance. If I can’t talk him down—well. The Children deserve better than him.”  
  
DiMA nods, hope lightening his shoulders for the first time since Kaelyn stepped into the room. “Then let me begin these projections at once.” He turns to his chair, but pauses on the steps. “I know I have no right to ask, but do you intend to tell Nick about the procedure, if you have not already?”  
  
Kaelyn is about to say yes, then stops. Valentine’s tentative relationship with his brother has already been strained by DiMA’s crimes. If this comes to light, she doesn’t know what he’ll do. She only knows it will hurt him further, and she won’t be responsible for that anymore. “No.”  
  
Later. She’ll—deal with it later.  
  
“I know I don’t have the right, but I... don’t want him to know.”  
  
“It’s for his sake, DiMA. Not yours.” Kaelyn turns on her heel and stalks out of the room, leaving DiMA with his head bowed, light reflecting off the bulbs implanted in his back.

—

Kasumi spends the next week pouring over blueprints and notes with Faraday, eager to finally help the way she knows best. They work late into the night and rise early in the morning to tinker and test their prototype. Derrick, to Kaelyn’s surprise and delight, also has a way with logistics that has him pulled onto the team. She doesn’t like leaving Kasumi or Derrick alone with Faraday, but can’t stand being in the same room as him. For his part, Faraday accepts her cold shoulder in silence and makes a speedy retreat whenever they’re forced together.  
  
While she works, Kasumi regales Kaelyn with the story of how the first Fog condensers had been installed. Then-Confessor Martin had raised concerns, but with some careful negotiation, he had accepted that they aren’t heretical artifacts. Especially since the Fog covers most of the island, and the condensers carve out a bare minimum of space for the island’s other inhabitants. It’s a markedly different version to the story whispered in the Nucleus, that paints the condensers as a wicked subversion of Atom’s power.  
  
All Kaelyn can do while they work is pace Acadia’s confines, taking lengthy detours to avoid passing the clinic, and try to think of anything but the procedure. No distraction can hold her drifting attention, always slipping back, the carrion birds of her mind circling above the corpse of her ease. To think she once felt safe here.  
  
On more occasions than she’d care to admit, she has to retreat to a corner of her little concrete room to ride out the shakes. In these moments she presses her hands to her breastbone, her mouth, and wonders what they dug through in her head. If they saw her with Valentine, did they also see her with Nate? What else have they pawed through? The privacy of her own head is a sanctity she never once thought to question, not even when she and Valentine linked up in the memory pods.  
  
Now—it’s all she can do to keep her resolve and _stop shaking._  
  
In a way, it’s good that she has no immediate catastrophe to deal with; the world feels distant, as if there’s a pane of glass separating her from it, and it’s hard at times to focus.  
  
One night, Kaelyn slinks outside to the balcony and wraps her arms around herself. Not for warmth. She jumps when the door below creaks open, heart hammering behind her ribs.  
  
“There you are.” Valentine halts beside her, far enough away so as to not crowd her. “Was wondering where you sneaked off to.”  
  
It should probably sting that he’s keeping tabs on her now, but it feels like a distant, petty problem. “Might as well take advantage of the view.”  
  
From Acadia’s mountainside perch, the uninspiring view of the island below is reduced to barely-visible shapes in the dark—but the sky above is clear, unimpeded by the little lanterns that flicker atop the barricades. Kaelyn and Valentine have stargazed in the past, so as far as excuses go it’s even plausible.  
  
Is it the same sky it always was? She looks up to see the crystal-studded carpet of black velvet hanging above her, a far cry from the few-dozen stars she used to be able to count at night. Or does it just _look_ different, returned to the rawness of nature?  
  
Valentine shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up at the milky ripples high above them. “You’ve been quiet of late. Real quiet. Care to talk?”  
  
It’s tempting to confide in him, as she has always been able to, but she can’t find the right words. “Nick, can I—have a hug?”  
  
Valentine’s gaze cuts to her, sharp in its surprise, and then his arms fold around her. Kaelyn leans against his chest, burying her head in the crook of his neck, and breathes in his unique blend of tobacco and motor oil. One of his hands protects the back of her head, while the other runs up and down her spine. She lets out a long sigh, imagining a thin stream of black sludge being expelled from her body.  
  
If they can stand like this forever, Kaelyn won’t mind.  
  
“Tell me it’s going to be alright.”  
  
His smooth baritone rumbles under her cheek. “’S all going to work out in the end, doll. You’ll see.”  
  
She closes her eyes. “I thought leaving the Commonwealth would make things better. Get some distance from… from everything. But with all that’s going on here, I think I’m ready to go home.”  
  
“You and me both, doll. You and me both.”  
  
When Kaelyn scrounges the will to pull away, Valentine’s worried gaze flits over her face. Jerking her chin towards the entrance, she retreats back inside, rattling down the stairs. He follows, allowing her this retreat without comment. And just for a moment, she swears she can still feel a steel hand brushing over her back.  
  
As promised, DiMA runs his simulations to determine the most effective—and discreet—locations to place the Fog condensers. His conclusion: there’s too much space to clear the entire northern half of the island, and with their resources it’s only feasible to clear the immediate vicinity of Far Harbor. This information is relayed by Kasumi; Kaelyn avoids the telescope room as much as possible. While the Children are known to wander the island, they won’t stray into the town or its surrounds without cause. The retreat of the Fog with no condensers in sight will, with luck, be enough of a sign to convince the Children.  
  
“If you want to mend fences with Far Harbor,” Valentine suggests, “invite them along to install the condensers. They’re a mule-headed folk who resent charity. Don’t do it for them—do it with them.”  
  
“Yes,” DiMA says, slow, considering. “Yes, I think that is wise.”  
  
“It isn’t enough to make up for what you’ve done,” Valentine warns, “but it’s a start.”  
  
Finally, four days later, Kasumi and Derrick achieve a breakthrough. The day after, Kaelyn and Valentine make the trip to Far Harbor to speak to the settlement. Even though there’s a ton of metal and machinery protecting her from the Fog, she keeps a wary eye on it all the same. Valentine makes no mention of the Fog, but she wonders what he’s thinking. Under the crunch of their boots and their studious avoidance of eye contact, things are—strained, and she doesn’t know how to make it right. So she tucks away the little throbbing hurt with a label marked To Be Dealt With When the Island Isn’t About to Explode.   
  
Out of courtesy, Captain Avery is the first they inform of the plan, in private, in full, and she gathers the Harborfolk. They’d debated for many hours whether to tell the Harborfolk about the new condensers in case word gets back to the Children, but Valentine protested more lies and his word seals the matter.  
  
Kaelyn addresses the crowd. “We have a plan to turn back the Fog from Far Harbor’s with prototype Fog condensers. Give you more breathing room. There’s one condition: you make peace with the Children of Atom.”  
  
Allen spits. “No. They’ll kill us all if we let let them! And you want us to, what, roll over and give them the chance?”  
  
Kaelyn rounds on him. “You know they say exactly the same thing about you? That you’re beasts because you murdered their missionaries.”  
  
Under his heavy brows, Allen’s gaze sharpens and he flashes his teeth. “He was about to pull a gun. I have the right to defend myself.”  
  
“Just like the Children have a right to defend themselves! If you’d rather bathe the island in blood, that’s fine. I’ll tell DiMA to stop and you can sit on this pier for the rest of your life.”  
  
Allen bares his teeth. “You’re not— dammit.”  
  
Sandra, a woman Kaelyn has had little to do with until now, steps forward to yell, “Don't listen to the mainlanders! My brother knows what we’ve got to do!”  
  
The Mariner snorts and points her hammer towards the gates. “See the Hull? That's thanks to our mainlanders. They also helped vanquish the Red Death! They’ve proven themselves to be true friends of Far Harbor! So if this is the price for getting room to stretch our legs, I say we take it.”  
  
“These mainlanders have always steered us straight!” Mitch calls, to a nod from Debbie. “My uncle’s safe thanks to them.”  
  
“Can’t even call them mainlanders anymore,” Teddy pipes up. “Remember who did the Captain’s Dance? You going to listen to Allen’s hate-mongering over a plan that’s going to help us get off this dock?”  
  
“Mainlanders cleared my farm. Avenged my family!” Cassie Dalton waves a hand. “More than the rest of you ever did for me. The island is waiting for us to slip, so I say we fight back.”  
  
There’s a ripple in the crowd, and a small head becomes visible. Bertha pushes her way to Kaelyn and Valentine’s side. “What's Allen ever really done? Cause trouble. Remember who cleared the lumber mill. This is a chance to take back our island.”  
  
Kaelyn gapes at the cascade of support. Valentine, too, is taken aback, his yellow gaze flicking from speaker to speaker.   
  
Allen stares at his fellow Harborfolk, his face slack with surprise. Realizing he’s outnumbered, he lifts his hands. “Enough. I’ll—back down.”  
  
Avery’s judgment is a mere formality. “Then it’s decided. We accept the offer and in return will have no more trouble with the Children of Atom. Allen, the harbor has spoken. No more trouble with the Children, you hear me?”  
  
Avery watches the dispersing crowd with wry disbelief. She always looks tired these days, her clothes hanging loose on her frame. Purple marks are smeared below her eyes and deep wrinkles have settled around the grooves of her mouth. Then as Mitch slams open the door to The Last Plank and declares a free round for hope, she sighs. “Everyone in Far Harbor and Acadia owes you both dearly. Possibly the Nucleus, too.”  
  
Valentine looks back at the spot where the town congregated, humming low in his throat. “Not every day an old synth sees that kind of support.”  
  
Despite herself, Kaelyn briefly touches his arm. “You’ve always been a good man. About time people recognized it.”  
  
Longfellow is the first of the Harborfolk to volunteer for the project, putting his intimate familiarity with the island to use. He leads teams of synth volunteers and Harborfolk to install Fog condensers at the spots DiMA marked around the decrepit town and the nearby forest. Tensions run high at first between the two peoples, but the ice is broken when Nazeem slips in a patch of mud and lands on his back, and later Bradley walks into a door frame.  
  
The modifications to the condensers allows them to be placed in surreptitious spots as they do their critical work. These condensers are smaller than their older counterparts, designed to be as unobtrusive as possible. Their technical gibberish transcends Kaelyn’s mechanical abilities, but Kasumi’s face lights up during her explanation, her tongue practically tripping over itself in a rush to get the words out.   
  
Unlike Kaelyn’s original idea, the condensers can’t be buried underground. However, with a quieter, more powerful engine, they can sit in a hole that’s been dug as long as there’s a way for the resulting water to drain away. With a thin mesh to cover the hole and a sprinkling of leaf litter, the condensers are both protected from the elements and invisible to the casual eye. In the town, they are positioned in corners of buildings and concealed with rickety wooden panels. As long as they’re placed where a creature is unlikely to meddle with them, they should remain undetected.   
  
Slowly, slowly, the Fog thins. It first recedes from the streets surrounding Far Harbor, slumping to the ground and writhing in thick trails of pearly gray and violet, until at last the skies are clear and the sun touches dew-damp asphalt for the first time this year. Next it curls back into the forest where it diffuses to translucent veils shivering in the air. For now, it’s enough.  
  
So it’s time to put the second half of the plan in motion. Kaelyn prepares to return to the Nucleus, stocking up on rad-x and radaway, along with two new stealth boys Kasumi repaired and extra ammo.  
  
Valentine finds her the morning she leaves. “I still can’t guard your back in the damn sub, so I’ll do what I can to help out here.”  
  
“Good idea. Just... watch DiMA. If he conjures up another terrible plan, you can temper him.”  
  
Kaelyn turns to leave, but Valentine grabs her wrist. A slender bracelet of steel, cold against her skin. Her heart skips a beat, heedless of the unspoken tension between them. When she glances down at their hands, he lets go as if burned.   
  
Valentine says, “Watch your back in there.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it, and happy holidays to everyone else! Also, as a heads up, I may or may not be able to post a new chapter next week, being New Year's Eve and all.
> 
> Thanks goes to Mr Ninja Pineapple for betaing!

The zealots at the entrance to the Nucleus welcome Kaelyn back with uneasy smiles. She only wonders until she steps inside and hears Tektus’s voice boom around the open chamber.  
  
“—and this, brothers and sisters, is why we must be disciplined to better serve Atom! When we forget our duty to Atom and the family, torpor takes hold!”  
  
A whimper of pain echoes off the concrete. Two zealots beat an unlucky brother, one zealot pinning his hands behind his back while the other punches him in the gut with her gauntleted fists. The first zealot kicks his legs out and throws him to the ground with a painful crunch. From the top of the Vessel, Tektus watches. Richter is a silent golem at his side.  
  
Kaelyn feels sick. Her instincts waver between interceding and keeping her cover, blurring to a haze of anxiety straining her nerves. The zealots proceed to kick the fallen man until the concrete is smeared with blood and tears. At a nod from Richter, the two zealots cease their beating at once and resume their posts. A hush falls over the chamber, the last echoes of the blows fading to an accusatory silence.  
  
Kaelyn winces. _And you just watched._  
  
When the Vessel lid clangs shut, signaling Tektus and Richter’s withdrawal, a slight figure darts down the stairs. Sister Mai crouches beside the fallen man, resting a hand on his hair. Kaelyn crouches on his other side and the two women glance at each other in wordless agreement.  
  
Mai looks to the nearby zealot. “If you don’t mind?”  
  
The zealot’s eyes flick to the Vessel, then he nods once. Hauling the man to his feet causes him to cry out in pain, his breaths short and harsh. Through the holes in his shirt, his stomach and ribs are peppered with dark bruises. “N— no. I have sinned against Atom and against the family. I deserve this.”  
  
“Maybe,” Mai says, “but you can repent somewhere other than the middle of a walkway.”  
  
Plenty of Children watch with varying degrees of subtlety, but no one dares assist them take the injured man to the Archemist. She takes one look and ushers them to a nearby gurney, possessing few qualms about wrapping his broken ribs and cleaning the grazes on his skin.  
  
“Thanks for your help,” Mai says. She wipes her hands down the front of her robes and turns to go back to her station.  
  
Kaelyn calls after her, “Mai? What... did he do?”  
  
She digs her heel into the ground. “He neglected evening prayers to talk with someone.”  
  
The shock of it leaves Kaelyn wandering the shacks, trying to process what just happened, until a nearby zealot asks, skeptical, “Have you finished your prayers already?”  
  
Anxiety rushes along her nerves. “Uh, that’s where I’m going right now. Glory to Atom.”  
  
“Glory to Atom!”  
  
Kaelyn kneels in a niche on the catwalk, hands raised to the Vessel. Pretending to fulfill her required hours of prayer gives her an unimpeded opportunity to plan. In the week of her absence, the unrest in the Nucleus has only grown. One would have to be dense to mistake the Children’s subdued air for docility—a number of eyes watch the zealots’ turned backs, and Kaelyn worries for Ware. The only time anyone speaks at normal volume is in the middle of a particularly impassioned prayer.  
  
She’s already destroyed the letter she picked up after leaving the Archemist, but its words prey on her mind. Now there are at least four dead drops spread across the Nucleus for trading messages on the sly, courtesy of Aubert. She doesn’t know how many people are involved, but she’s torn between hope that their numbers grow and fear that a Tektus supporter might catch wind of it.  
  
_Zealots under Richter too many. Tektus protected._  
  
Indeed, the Confessor is never without a quadrant of personal guards, bolstered by Richter’s constant attention. Any fight would be bloody, if only for the superior armor the zealots’ raiments offer. Kaelyn only has one suit of power armor, hidden near the Nucleus.  
  
_Need weapons_ —written in another hand beneath it.  
  
At the bottom of the page— _Need Atom._  
  
Kaelyn has the solution to that last one: the Mother. And yet, she’s already faking belief in their faith. Faking a sign from their god is dangerously close to a line Kaelyn isn’t sure she wants to cross. But it’s the only trump card they have against Tektus’s stranglehold on the Children, who might place more faith in their god than in their leader. Only the zealots, whose loyalty will be conflicted, remain an unknown. If Richter picked his people with care, they’ll be loyal to him above anything else.  
  
So Kaelyn lifts her hands and begs anything that’s listening to work around the zealots.  
  
Heavy footsteps rattle behind her; she relaxes at the sound of Ware’s gravelly voice. “If I’m disturbing you, you can tell me to leave.”  
  
Loudly, Kaelyn says, “Pray with me.”  
  
Ware settles on his knees beside her. “Something’s eating at you.”  
  
“I’m conflicted,” she says softly. Her words plop onto the concrete and roll off the edge to the glowing pool skulking thirty feet below.  
  
“About? I’m no expert with the visions, but I can listen.”  
  
_I’m going to lie to your high priest about a religious sign to get him to back off Far Harbor and stop hurting his own people. If that doesn’t work, I’m going to start a coup._  
  
“There’s something I have to do, but I don’t know if I can. It’s important—not just for the Children, but the whole island—and yet...”  
  
“What’s right and what’s easy are rarely the same thing, but I think you know that. The Mother found you worthy, and I know you can live up to that.”  
  
It’s always going to come back to her initiation and that strange journey through the radiation-ravaged wastes, on the heels of a phantom who laughed and whispered—  
  
“Preserve. Bring them peace.” Kaelyn traces the words, one by one, with her mouth. “That’s what she said. Bring them peace.”  
  
“Who said?”  
  
She looks up. “The Mother.”

—

Even with a vision-slash-hallucination that gave Kaelyn a stamp of approval, her guilt is diminished, not destroyed. In a move of pure procrastination, she detours to the dead drop in the locker room and, after removing the false bottom in the last locker on the left, she rifles through the letters. The topmost paper conversation features several different sets of handwriting:  
  
_Zealots must have weapons cache. Where? In case we need them._  
  
_Gamma guns useless against most of the family._  
  
_Who has Atom’s blessing and who doesn’t?_  
  
That one sends a little thrill of fear along Kaelyn’s spine for Ware and Devin. The conversation continues:  
  
_By Atom’s Glow—too risky!_  
  
_We could meet somewhere quiet to plan. Risky, but not much more than usual these days._  
  
As much as Kaelyn would like to attend a meeting and see the faces of her unknown allies, it’s too dangerous in the current climate.  
  
So she writes: _Zealots will know if weapons missing. I can get into command center and see if there are any pre-war guns in there. Need place to hide them. Let me know if this is a go._  
  
“Hear me, brothers and sisters!” Tektus’s voice is a faint boom that makes her jump. “After today’s lapse, we must all prostrate ourselves before Atom and beg His forgiveness!”  
  
Replacing the false bottom of the locker, Kaelyn rushes to the assembling Children and braces herself for the coming tedium. Tektus leads the prayers, punctuated by over-enthusiastic shouts from the gathered Children, for hours. Kaelyn’s arms soon ache from holding them aloft and her knees hurt from the hard concrete. Sweat dampens her skin from the cloying heat of radiation and fear.  
  
When Tektus shouts that Atom advocates sacrificing Far Harbor to Atom as a show of devotion, Kaelyn feels guilty for calling her agreement in chorus with the rest of the Children.  
  
Amidst the curdling shame, however, is a solidifying thought: Kaelyn isn’t the only one here manipulating their religion for her own benefit.  
  
At last, Tektus seems to tire and, with a croaking voice, calls, “Atom is surely pleased with our obedience tonight, brothers and sisters! Glory to Atom!”  
  
No one quite believes it’s over, the chants dropping to a resonant murmur, until the clang of the Vessel lid signals that it’s—not safe, but that they’re free from the Confessor’s suspicious gaze. Kaelyn stretches then slumps her shoulders, scrounging the will to rise to her feet. If Tektus’ plan is to exhaust the family so they have no energy to scheme and plot against him, he may be onto something.  
  
A nearby brother halts by her side. “Let me help you, sister.” He holds out a hand.  
  
Seeing no way to gracefully refuse, Kaelyn lets him haul her to her feet. The man staggers a little under her unexpected weight and they bump into each other, off-balance. His hand strays to her waist and she’s about to snap at him when she feels something slide into her belt pouch. The man backs off with a sheepish smile.  
  
“Thank you,” she says, and finds a quiet corner in the communal sleeping area, facing a wall, to take a peek at the folded note.  
  
_Want to prove your usefulness? Find weapons. Hide them where we talked last time. Also, appreciate not being hauled off by zealots yet._  
  
Aubert’s handwriting.  
  
The man who helped her to her feet causes a ruckus in the dining area, suggesting they compose new songs in Atom’s honor, and a number of Children freeze, their eyes glassy with exhaustion, before they call their support with plastic smiles. Sensing her opportunity, Kaelyn murmurs to Mai that a bladder never waits for Atom, and slips away. Once inside the command center, she searches for storage areas or other stockpiles.  
  
The cold lights burn away the eerie atmosphere of the renovated Nucleus, returning a sense of normalcy, but there’s no forgetting she’s still inside the Children of Atom’s stronghold. Kaelyn turns down an unfamiliar corridor, alert for any previously undiscovered protectrons or assaultrons, and is welcomed into the storeroom by glaring silence. She hurries to the nearest shelf to check its contents.  
  
Success.  
  
Crates of ammunition, a number of them half-empty, sit on rusted shelves near racks of pistols and rifles. If she had more time she’d investigate the rest of the supplies—uniforms and field kits, she guesses—more thoroughly. Kaelyn fills duffel bags with weapons and ammo, cursing when more than one worn strap breaks, and ferries what she can to the upper levels of the Nucleus using the corridors she discovered last time she was in the command center. Finding spots that are surreptitious enough to remain hidden but simple enough to find in the event of an emergency is rather difficult. Any marker to help her co-conspirators will also give the caches away to a hypothetical investigator.  
  
Drawing in a bolstering breath, a flit of anxiety returns as she considers what she must now do. The final piece needs to be laid.

—

At last, Kaelyn marches up the gangplank to the Vessel where Tektus presides. With a guard in each corner of the room, Tektus reclines in his throne, secure in his domain. A smirk stretches across his face as he regards her, at odds with the sickly-sweetness of his tone. “Atom’s favored child graces my presence. Is there something I can do for you?”  
  
Show time. Kaelyn barely has to act for her voice to waver. “High Confessor. Forgive me for not seeing you sooner but so much has been going on and I—” She draws in a deep breath for effect. “When I was wandering the island, I saw— I don’t know what I saw. Well—I do, but I don’t think you’ll like to hear it, Confessor.”  
  
“Go on.” His voice is a razor over glass.  
  
“When I drank from the spring and the Mother guided me to the family, she whispered something strange to me. I didn’t understand her, then, but I think I do now. She said: preserve. Protect the family. And now the Mother has lifted her veil to protect Far Harbor.”  
  
That garners incredulous squawks from the watching zealots like birds being shooed off a comfortable perch.  
  
Tektus’s feet hit the ground with a thump. “What? Inconceivable! Atom granted this island to us. Are you certain of what you saw, my child?”  
  
“The streets around Far Harbor are clear, Confessor.” Kaelyn keeps her voice low, humble, even as she says, “It can only mean Atom wants peace.”  
  
Tektus appraises her from head to toe. Leaning back in his seat, he runs a hand over the gray whiskers on his chin. “And what makes you so certain of that, child? Why would such a portent—vital to the wellbeing of this family—come to one such as you?” _And not to me,_ are the words that hang in the air, as cloying as the pungent incense that swirls through the Vessel.  
  
Her smile is grim. “Because a mother always wants what’s best for her children. A family afraid, torn apart from without and within—she doesn’t want this. Maybe she came to me because she knew I would listen. I can’t assume to know Atom’s will, or that my will is His.” She dares a peek out of the corner of her eye to see if Tektus understands who’s will she questions—and, oh, he does. “All I know is I have seen the Fog roll back with my own eyes. Can you safely ignore that sign, Confessor?”  
  
“What if—this is Atom’s will? Were we wrong about Atom’s intentions for Far Harbor?” The zealot who spoke shifts on her feet under the Confessor’s piercing gaze.  
  
Tektus rises to his feet. It’s a slow, deliberate movement that has nothing to do with the confines of age: first his hands clutch the armrests in his clawed grip before he pushes himself upright on creaking knees and stretches to his full height—aided by that ridiculous headdress—to impose over Kaelyn. It’s only manageable because she kneels; she’s taller than an old priest. “I had best fast and pray for Atom’s guidance. As for you, my child,” Tektus takes her hand and bids she stand, “Richter has a task for you, if you would continue to serve this family. All of you—leave me.”  
  
Kaelyn bows her head. “Of course, Confessor.”  
  
Just outside the Vessel, someone calls, “Wait.” Zealot Theil, a pale woman with unruly red hair, jogs to a halt at Kaelyn’s side. “What you said to the Confessor— your vision of the Mother— that was all real?”  
  
“I saw it,” Kaelyn answers. Whether it was real, she has her doubts. “I don’t think Confessor Tektus was impressed, but if that’s what the Mother demands, I cannot ignore her.”  
  
“She is Atom’s prophet,” Theil echoes. “Her will is Atom’s will. Even if it’s something as strange as this. Peace with Far Harbor? You were... brave, I think, to convey her message to Confessor Tektus.”  
  
Since the Children are astoundingly effective gossips, word has spread through the ranks before Kaelyn has even tracked down Richter and obtained his instructions. Even the zealots are wary now of the shifting mood within the Nucleus, and watch Kaelyn out of the corner of their eyes. Before she leaves, she scribbles a note that reads: _Atom sent sign—peace with Far Harbor and within family. T may or may not listen to Him. Need to convince zealots._ She leaves it in the dead drop in the locker room by the decontamination arches.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have three versions of this chapter, believe it or not. It was hard to pick which one was best for the story.
> 
> Thank you Mr Ninja Pineapple for all your help with this chapter!

This task to, in Richter’s words, prove her devotion and loyalty, is as predictable as it is distasteful: Kaelyn must hunt down a heretic who abandoned the family. At least it’s an opportunity to learn how apostates are treated so she can prepare for the same.  
  
After tracking down the likes of Kellogg and Virgil, finding Sister Gwyneth is almost disappointingly easy. The graffiti at the defiled holy sites have been made from cut up posters and magazines, and one such cannibalized poster fragment is from an advertisement for Waketak Station. A search of the cabins yields success: one room is covered in cut up posters, and a pilfered banner painted with Atom’s symbols is scrunched up over a sleeping bag. Among Gwyneth’s belongings are notes scribbled on any available paper, written around the cut holes in the pages, and one such journal entry reveals where she went.  
  
Kaelyn takes the church steps with care, keeping one eye on the cemetery in case of lurking ferals. The church doors hang ajar in a gesture too unsettling to welcome visitors. Firelight flickers on the floor and behind it—movement.  
  
“Stop! You— you have come to a sacred place. Have you come to learn the truth of Nothing?”  
  
Kaelyn glances around at the ruined pews. It’s a sacred place alright. Even if her spiritual beliefs don’t trend towards organized religion, there’s a feeling of wrongness when she steps into a pre-war place of worship armed. Some sensibilities she can’t shake. Not even after months of popping in and out of Old North Church.  
  
And then it clicks that Gwyneth said nothing with a capital N. “What do you mean by that?”  
  
Gwyneth, a white, trembling woman, lifts her chin. Lank brown curls slide away from her face. “It’s a false gospel, all of it. I was paging through a pre-war tome when I saw it. The atom. A tiny speck of matter surrounded by endless depths. It only reaffirmed what I felt all this time. This is the truth the Confessor wanted no one to hear—the lie that is Atom. It’s not real! We _aren’t_ infinite worlds! Just empty space. Nothing is the true nature of existence. I know it is difficult to accept, but you must, as must the others.”  
  
“Oh for the love of—” Kaelyn closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose, and draws in a deep breath. “Do you have this pre-war book?”  
  
Gwyneth backs up to the stairs and darts up the dais to the podium. Hugging the book to her chest, she tiptoes to Kaelyn and holds it out with no heed for the pistol Kaelyn still holds. “It was all I managed to take with me when I fled.”  
  
Kaelyn takes one look at the page in question and says flatly, “It’s a diagram of an atom.”  
  
“See the void that surrounds Atom? That is Nothing!”  
  
“Close but not quite.” Kaelyn huffs a sigh. “Atoms are the building blocks of matter. They’re so small we can’t see them with our bare eyes. This is a science textbook.” But when she turns the page, she finds the pages are stuck together and the text smudged.  
  
Gwyneth stares at her as if she sprouted a second head. “Then how can anyone know they exist?”  
  
“Have you ever seen a pre-war microscope? Scientists used very powerful microscopes. It’s human nature to assume, when we encounter something we can’t explain, that it’s something mystical.”  
  
And it hits Kaelyn that was exactly what she did with the spring vision.  
  
With a self-deprecating smile, she continues, more gently this time, “But this is not mysticism. It’s science. And I think, underneath your fear and doubt, you know this isn’t a bigger, badder god.”  
  
“Fear and doubt…” Gwyneth looks down to the page, tracing the worn ink, then the empty space circling it. “This is—a lot to think about.”  
  
“It isn’t easy to come to terms with learning what you know isn’t what you thought it was.” The recognition that they’re standing in a church leads Kaelyn to tack on, “Maybe there is a god out there, but it isn’t Nothing—and it isn’t Atom.”  
  
Gwyneth raises a quizzical eyebrow. “You say this wearing the Children’s robes. I thought you were one of my sisters.”  
  
Fair point. Kaelyn inclines her head. “You aren’t the only one with doubts. I came to find you because you need to know Richter ordered your death. You’re not safe here. If you flee, I can tell him you’re dead.”  
  
For all that Gwyneth presses her mouth into a line, it can’t stop her quailing chin. She clutches the book to her chest again, this time as a shield. “I knew it could happen if I left the family but—I had to. The— the only thing I know right now is that I must leave. Thank you for the warning. And—for what you’ve given me to think about.”  
  
As Gwyneth bustles down the road, a wave of grief rushes over Kaelyn for all the knowledge that has been lost.

—

Out of the corner of Kaelyn’s eye, she notices a ripple in the Fog. The Deep Fog around the lake is a sickly yellow, eddying on air currents that lap at the ground in a mimicry of the tides—and there it is again. Another disturbance.  
  
Halting off to the side of the road, Kaelyn draws Deliverer and spins in a slow circle, seeking the source.  
  
Something watches her from the Fog.  
  
Down the road, a shadow materializes. Kaelyn’s grip tightens on Deliverer, but it becomes clear the figure is too slight to be Richter or any other zealot in their bulky raiments as they approach. The phantom with burning eyes takes a final step out of the Fog, and she’s a solid woman.  
  
Kaelyn gapes. “You’re—real? Of flesh and blood?”  
  
The Mother of the Fog stands wreathed in the unearthly glow of the Fog, which billows as much as her faded robes. Radiation has withered her frame, stolen her hair in clumps, wrinkled her face like an apple left in the sun. She is an ageless icon, given form and depth for the first time. Kaelyn wonders if, under her robes, her belly is as lined with stretch marks as her own is. A stealth boy is strapped to her hip.  
  
That explains a thing or two.  
  
“Mother hears our Children. Whispers against the one who drove the Good Confessor away.” Her voice is the rasp of dead leaves skittering over dry asphalt.  
  
Well, at least she doesn't seem irritated at having her name invoked to stir up anti-Tektus sentiment. If anything, she approves.  
  
“Are you offering to help? You’d have better luck convincing them than I would.”  
  
“We watch our Children,” she says. “They are trapped. Mother wishes to end their pain.”  
  
Kaelyn takes a step forward. “And you can. I am doing everything I can to convince Tektus this isn’t the way, but they trust you to be their guide. You could clear things up pretty quickly if you went to the Nucleus.”  
  
The Mother’s eyes are a muddy brown, Kaelyn notices for the first time. “The Bad Confessor is poison. Poisons the Mother. Poisons our Children.” Her countenance grows stern as she points a finger at Kaelyn. “Bring them peace.”  
  
And with that, the Mother hits her stealth boy and retreats into her Fog. In moments, the Deep Fog has swirled to fill the space she had occupied.  
  
Kaelyn sighs. “That went well.”

—

A group of people are clustered outside the Nucleus. Grand Zealot Richter with his two guards, and pacing before them is—Aubert. A quiet instinct flickers in the back of Kaelyn’s mind. She checks her stealth boy and switches the safety off Deliverer, its grip fitted to her palm as she strides past the banners. Aubert’s eyes flash to Kaelyn, the whites visible even from this distance.  
  
Richter tracks her approach with barely a twitch. His two zealots stand several paces away. “Ah. You’ve returned.”  
  
A sense of deja vu climbs up the ladder of her her spine. Kaelyn comes to a halt beside Aubert. Resists the urge to glance sideways at the anxious woman. “Gwyneth won’t be troubling you any longer.”  
  
Richter draws in a half-breath through his nose. “Had to be done. Won’t ask how. I wish I could say you’ve proven your loyalty to the family, but that’s not the case. The High Confessor has reason to believe otherwise. So... a test.”  
  
Now Kaelyn and Aubert share a look. Aubert’s face is white and shiny with sweat, even the bald patch on her head. Her mouth trembles, breathing, “No, no, please, no—”  
  
“One of you returns the Nucleus. The other to Atom.”  
  
Kaelyn, however, scoffs. “Seriously? I just hunted down a heretic. That not loyal enough for you?”  
  
Richter remains impassive, his eyes dark and flinty, imposing in his grand armor. “If you refuse to make a choice, you both die. So decide.”  
  
“Oh for the love of—” Kaelyn hefts Deliverer, aims to the right and—  
  
A blue laser slices through the air.  
  
Richter staggers, the side of his head charred black. Kaelyn pulls the trigger on the flanking zealot. Aubert cringes away, arms coming up to her face. Kaelyn tackles her behind a trio of oil drums as bullets fly by them, adrenaline spiking on her tongue. Rolling to her knees, she aims again and sees—  
  
Chase, snapping up one zealot as a human shield while firing at Richter. The Grand Zealot drops behind a concrete barricade by the door and waits for a break in her fire to retaliate with a barrage of his own.  
  
Kaelyn picks the third guard, who survived her earlier shot but isn’t smart enough to hunker down beside Richter. A neat trio of bullets lodge into his armor, Deliverer’s barrel kicking upward. The fourth shot hits his throat and he goes down choking. Richter swivels in her direction and she ducks. Gunfire rattles the oil drums and white-hot pain flares in Kaelyn’s lower back. Pressing a hand to the spot, she feels the round lodged in her ballistic weave. Their cover isn’t bulletproof at all.  
  
Nothing for it now. She reloads, pushes Aubert to the ground, and leans out of cover.  
  
“Sorry, brother!” Chase’s hostage shudders as Richter’s fire rips through him.  
  
Chase hurls the body at Richter with enough force to knock him back a step, out from the behind the barricade, then pounces in a blur of black. Lost in a whirlwind of strikes and grunts, she somehow manages to slap his rifle hard enough to jam it, before tearing it from his grasp. But Richter lunges, fast enough to return the favor and Chase’s own laser rifle goes flying.  
  
Skidding through the mud, Kaelyn scoops up Chase’s rifle and loads a fresh fusion cell. She skirts across the courtyard, seeking an angle where she can fire at Richter without hitting Chase, but their movements are too erratic. One moment Chase almost has him in a headlock, the next Richter crowds her with his superior bulk.  
  
Richter feints left and Chase falls for it, only for him to grab her and throw her over his hip with a roar. She slaps into the mud, shoulder unbroken despite his best effort, but takes a precious second to find her feet. Richter bears down on her, drawing a gamma gun from his belt.  
  
There. Kaelyn sweeps the rifle to her shoulder and fires. Scorch marks bloom on Richter’s armor, charring and cracking the ornamental patterns. He staggers back, dives behind the barricade, but doesn’t get up immediately. Chase moves for the kill—and Kaelyn intercepts her.  
  
“Wait, please. He doesn’t have to die today, and neither does Tektus—”  
  
Chase’s gaze flits past Kaelyn and she grabs her as a gamma ray blast warps the air. The world is a sickening blur as Chase twists to take the worst of it, but her innards lurch. When her head stops swimming, she hears a crack.  
  
Aubert still aims Deliverer at Richter. His head has snapped back, his expression still twisted in a teeth-bared grimace. Still clutched in his grip is his gamma gun, useless against her.  
  
“For Edgar.”  
  
Kaelyn winces and closes her eyes, willing the last of the nausea to fade. So much for that.  
  
Maybe Richter is beyond saving, but Tektus can still be negotiated with.  
  
“Are you unwell?” Chase still holds her arm, and peers at her with a flicker of concern in the tense bow of her mouth. From a courser, it’s a grave sign.  
  
Sloughing off her regret, Kaelyn shakes her head. “Chase. What are you doing here?”  
  
Her smile is tight and grim. “Shadowing you. Consider this an apology.”  
  
An apology—oh. No time to let the memory rush her now. Kaelyn shoves it all away until there is one focus: confronting Tektus.  
  
Aubert studies Chase and her eyes widen, then narrow. “You’re one of those things. Synths. With that plastic man. How do you two know each other?”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Tektus is a menace not just to the family, but to the entire island. We don’t have so many allies we can afford to throw one away.”  
  
Aubert’s scowl is almost usual, if not for her paleness. “No funny business, you hear me?” Then her grimace betrays her disquiet. “I can’t believe I fell for— Sister Avila asked me to bring a meal to the door guard. So stupid.”  
  
Kaelyn has to wonder if the Gwyneth matter was a ruse to orchestrate the loyalty test, or if Tektus had only just decided to eliminate her. “Aubert, do you know how long until the guard rotates?”  
  
“Only just changed. I wouldn’t leave the Nucleus if I knew Richter is— was out here.” She looks at his body and swallows.  
  
Kaelyn nods once. This isn’t how she’d planned their coup starting, but now—there’s no way but forward. “Then we still have time. Do you know how many people oppose Tektus? How many are zealots?”  
  
“There’s no—time,” Aubert grits out, baring her teeth. “We do this now.”  
  
Kaelyn checks her weapons, the motion familiar enough it clears her head so she can think. “Chase, if you’re a good distance shooter, there’s a catwalk above the Vessel. Poor cover, but no one ever looks up. It has an unimpeded view of everything except Tektus’s podium. Access is by the stairs near the decon arches.”  
  
She nods. “I’ll go in under stealth. If you need me, I’ll be there.”  
  
Kaelyn reaches down to her belt and, whilst it’s covered in radioactive mud, her own stealth boy is intact. “I’ll go stealthed, too. Let Tektus think Aubert won the test and I’m dead until I can get close to him.”  
  
They turn to Aubert for her agreement and stop. She’s half-hunched, her robes dark and dripping. One hand presses to the entry wound in her side. It still takes the combined efforts of Kaelyn and Chase to break through her mule-headed refusals, inject a stimpak and bandage her up. There’s no time to remove the lodged bullet.  
  
If they’re still alive when this is over, the Archemist can do a better job.  
  
In turn, Chase and Kaelyn vanish into thin air. Aubert starts, even though she knew it was coming. Kaelyn draws in a careful breath, then another, and follows the her as she limps towards the Vessel. A whisper of air against her shoulder is the only sign of Chase’s passing.  
  
Last time she’d done something like this, the coursers had been the enemy. Last time, Valentine had been by her side.  
  
Thinking of him almost cracks Kaelyn’s resolve. How she wants one last look at his face, the glow of his eyes, the crook of his smile. Squeezing Deliverer’s grip, Kaelyn crosses the threshold.  
  
If most of the zealots support Tektus, this will be a bloodbath.  
  
Tektus stands at his podium on the Vessel, delivering another sermon. “Devotion to Atom is not enough if one has no loyalty to the family. Wicked lies have reached my ears of false signs demanding peace with Far Harbor. Atom would never demand such heresy, not when His holy Fog laps at their gates! This flagrancy is a sign of weakness in the family—of those who put their own desires before Atom’s.”  
  
Aubert’s entrance draws a ripple through the nearest members of the congregation, who notice her and then double take: mud-slicked and blood-stained and grim-faced. Mai half reaches out, then aborts the gesture with a quick glance at a nearby looming zealot. Aubert trades looks with several people, and Kaelyn swears a number of them have the bulge of a pistol poorly hidden in their robes. Instead of slipping unseen into the crowd to lick her wounds, Aubert limps up the gangplank that connects the dock to the Vessel. Kaelyn follows as close behind her as she dares, hoping no one spots the tell-tale ripple or, worse, bumps into so-called ‘empty air’.  
  
Tektus himself doesn’t notice Aubert until one of his guard quartet makes a surprised noise. Aubert’s pure daring has given them pause, if nothing else. Two zealots are in Kaelyn’s clear sight, not counting those arrayed around the dock. One of Tektus’s guards is Ware.  
  
Kaelyn’s gut clenches.  
  
The zealots tighten their hold on their weapons, wary of the intrusion but unwilling to shoot a sister without cause. The walkway is narrow, so Kaelyn sidesteps to get as clear a shot as she can on the Confessor. Her stealth boy is hot against her thigh, and it won’t last much longer before it overheats.  
  
If Kaelyn shoots Tektus, the whole place will turn on her. And she finds she doesn’t want to shoot him.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” Tektus’s eyes bulge, his jowls trembling with the rage that fractures along the wrinkles on his face. “If by Atom’s grace you were permitted back into the fold, you had best not squander it so soon, child.”  
  
“What he means, sisters and brothers,” Aubert shouts, “is that he had Richter kill one of our own! Anyone who reminds Tektus he is unworthy to lead this family—gone!”  
  
Tektus gives her a nasty smile. “No, dear child. For you to be standing here, _you_ must have killed our newest sister, heretic that she was.”  
  
Another ripple—and a surprising number of disappointed faces in the crowd. Kaelyn hadn’t expected to make a good impression here. But it’s Ware’s face that breaks her heart. A rush of murmurs circle the room once, then still at a wordless hiss from the Confessor.  
  
“Wrong on both counts, Confessor.” Kaelyn’s stealth fields melts away with a high pitched whine, pushed to its limits.  
  
Shocked cries rebound of the high ceiling, warped by the acoustics of the room to eerie wails that scratch over her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.  
  
Kaelyn pitches her voice to echo off the roiling yellow water below. “You all know the Mother granted me a vision when I drank from the spring. The ‘wicked lie’ the Confessor speaks of is the Mother lifting her veil from Far Harbor! Something that can be checked by anyone with eyes! This can only mean Atom wants peace, but Tektus would disobey Him and have me silenced in favor of his own agenda!”  
  
Tektus scoffs. “Such accusations, child. You, who infiltrated this family to spread your blasphemous notion that Atom would care a whit for the heretics trembling on their dock! Who do you believe, brothers and sisters? A fresh-faced stranger, barely a part of the fold, who preferred her own counsel to the company of the family?”  
  
Kaelyn calls, loud and clear, “You, who has crushed the family under your heel? You, who murdered anyone who wouldn’t lick your boots? The Mother demands peace. Atom demands peace. You say your will is the will of Atom. I say it isn’t, and this family has quailed in fear of you for too long. You spit in His face presuming you know better than His Radiance.”  
  
Tektus’s face scrunches in a snarl, spittle flying from his lips. “You dare—”  
  
“But— Confessor,” one of his guards, Yenner, pipes up. Enough confusion blends with her wariness that hope sparks in the pit of Kaelyn’s stomach. “The Mother is Atom’s messenger. Who are we to question Him?”  
  
While her question were not meant to be loud, the acoustics of the chamber magnify her doubt until whispers crawl among the watching congregation. Someone shouts, “We must follow Atom’s will!”  
  
“The Confessor’s will _is_ Atom’s—!”  
  
Someone gasps and point, and for a moment Kaelyn thinks Chase’s cover has been compromised but they point in the opposite direction, towards the command center.  
  
The visage of a phantom in billowing robes stands at the railing. Her eyes burn as she takes in the scene.  
  
Kaelyn gapes along with everyone else, even if her reasons are different. The Mother actually listened, even if she had been deep in her mystical guardian routine at the time.  
  
The Children look around the room, at sister and brother, at the loyal and rebellious. Fresh murmurs, loud in the sudden hush, break out.  
  
“Is that—?”  
  
“The Mother…”  
  
The very walls seem to sigh the name. “The Mother!”  
  
Tektus can only stare, as do his guards. Kaelyn and Ware exchange a grim look. When she approaches, no one lays a hand on her.  
  
Without his personal guards to protect him, Tektus is but an old man hunched against the railing with one arm raised as if to ward away the Mother’s censure. In a last burst of speed, Kaelyn rushes him to fist a hand in his collar, shattering the illusion of his untouchable power. His hands curl into claws, scratching at her arms, scrabbling to free himself.  
  
Tektus’s eyes fix over her shoulder. “Zealot! I demand you execute this heretic at once!”  
  
A creak of armor behind her. “Atom forgive me, but I can’t.”  
  
People now stare at her. She surveys the chamber, stomach clenching at the number of weapons brandished between brothers and sisters. Kaelyn swallows, but can’t choke back the rush of fear and fury. So instead she harnesses it, screaming, _“This_ is the result of hatred and intolerance! This is what Tektus would demand you do to Far Harbor! This is what Tektus has done to the family!”  
  
“You think this is _my_ fau—” Tektus chokes off as Kaelyn tightens her grip on his collar.  
  
Kaelyn draws in a deep breath. “This has to end _now!”_  
  
“Atom’s very words, daresay, if He could talk to us directly,” Ware says, and his voice carries in the ringing silence.  
  
Above them all, the Mother smiles and vanishes. Credit where credit’s due, that woman has an excellent sense of timing.  
  
Someone cries, “He punishes us for not listening to Him! The Mother sent a sign—we cannot deny it!”  
  
“We only have that sister’s word on it!”  
  
“She says the Confessor caused this?”  
  
“The Confessor caused this!”  
  
The last speaker, a wild-eyed man with one of the pilfered pre-war pistols, is the first to move. He pushes his way to the Vessel and others follow, swarming the gangplank.  
  
“The High Confessor kept Atom’s will from us! If we punish Tektus, Atom might forgive us for our sins!”  
  
“Wait!” Kaelyn lunges forward to latch a hand around his wrist. “Enough blood has been shed today. No more.” Maybe they don't know about Richter yet, but they will. “The Mother would not see her children war like this.”  
  
Ware stands by her side. “Our sister here is right. Confess— Tektus. I can’t kill you. You saved me from my joke of a life. If Atom wants you dead, He can strike you down Himself.”  
  
“Then what do we do with him?” someone calls.  
  
“Disown him,” Kaelyn mutters, but Aubert hears her.  
  
She calls, “Exile it is, sisters and brothers!”  
  
Tektus looks from face to face. Recognition bleeds over his face like spilled inks; a stain that will not lift easily. He presses his mouth into a thin, white line. “After all I have done for the family, this is— fine. Have it your way, then. I see when I am defeated.”  
  
“It was never a war,” Kaelyn tells him, “until you made it one.”  
  
Tektus is marched inside a quartet of zealots—a different four to Tektus’s bodyguards—through the Nucleus to the entrance. With a final, baleful look, Tektus turns away. He begins his shamed walk away from the Nucleus, away from the family, and into the Fog.  
  
It doesn’t feel like it’s over. But when she glances up at the catwalk, she catches a black shape that could be Chase retreating from view. Abruptly lightheaded, Kaelyn spins on her heel, seeking Aubert. The woman sits propped against the Vessel ladder, one hand pressed to her side. Red seeps through her bandages.  
  
Kaelyn slides down the sail to sit beside her, her strength fading with the adrenaline.  
  
Aubert grins. There’s blood between her teeth. “It’s done. Edgar avenged and Tektus gone. Atom smiles on us.”


	20. Chapter 20

In the immediate hours after Tektus’s exile, the Children mill in clusters, some murmuring, most in shock, none willing to raise a hand in protest—out loud, at least. There has been no sign of Chase since she went under stealth; all Kaelyn can do is hope she’s made her escape. It’s a tense mood that can easily turn ugly. Kaelyn can’t leave with the atmosphere so fragile, with the potential for her hard work to be undone.  
  
No matter the prickle in her eyes, Kaelyn refuses to rest but instead slings Aubert’s arm across her shoulders and all but carries her to the Archemist. Aubert practically flops onto her pallet when Kaelyn lowers her with as much care she can muster. The Archemist somehow shoos Kaelyn away while simultaneously cutting through Aubert’s soaked bandages.  
  
Ware is a blessing, his status permitting him to order the zealots and his fair reputation allowing him to consult with the other Children. Under his direction, the zealots lay down their arms as a gesture of good faith, on the condition Aubert’s rebels do the same. The remaining Children look between each other with wide eyes. Without a leader, they are directionless. Discontented murmurs well like the gurgling of a spring against the lapping yellow light.  
  
“What do we do now?”  
  
“Was this what Atom wanted? Was this right?”  
  
And then Brother Devin sinks to his knees on the catwalk, face uplifted to the Vessel, and cries: “An island at peace! The family now free! The compassion of Atom never ceases to amaze!”  
  
One by one, the other Children go on bended knee, swept into an impromptu worship session, chanting their fears and doubts and hopes until dawn comes with its gray-tipped exhaustion.  
  
Kaelyn almost thinks it might be okay until she hears the awful scream when Theil discovers Richter.  
  
In the following days, some Children venture out to see the Fog turn back with their own eyes and return agitated, calling that Atom’s will is done. That quashes any remaining doubts, but Tektus’s remaining supporters glower with fresh resentment. Kaelyn keeps her distance—and not just because conversations die when she steps in the room, wary eyes flashing in her direction. Richter and his two loyal guards are interred in the crypt with Theil guarding their bodies at all hours, even if Aubert has nothing pleasant to say about it.  
  
“’Bout as appropriate as appointing a gulper to be High Confessor. Richter’s the reason half the bodies are in the crypt.”  
  
From her spot beside Aubert’s pallet, Kaelyn peers down at her. “You said people are interred in the crypt to be closer to Atom’s Glow. Whatever he did, Richter was still one of the Children. Too many have been denied the honor already.”  
  
Aubert draws herself up, then winces. A mulish look concedes her defeat. “You’re right.”  
  
The burst of her old fire doesn’t last, and in a few hours she falls back into a fevered sleep. Even under the Archemist’s deft care, her supplies are few and the conditions of the Nucleus are poor. Kaelyn remains by Aubert’s bedside, ignoring the Archemist’s increasingly-unsubtle hints that she get some rest, and sponges the sweat from Aubert’s face.  
  
“’S fine. If I meet Atom, I’ll be reunited with Edgar.” Aubert gives a wan smile that’s more akin to a grimace, her eyes bright and glassy. And yet her mouth curls up at the edges.  
  
Kaelyn only squeezes her hand, understanding that kind of half-desire a little too well.  
  
The mood settles somewhat over the next few days when Ware assumes the position of Grand Zealot, even if Kaelyn has to nudge him into accepting. Theil, Richter’s second, is stricken by grief. Besides, her contempt towards Far Harbor is well-known, so Kaelyn figures it’s for the best. In Ware, Kaelyn sees what the Children of Atom could be.  
  
“I suppose stranger things have happened,” he says with a wry smile. “Atom’s peace. I appreciate not having to sleep with a knife under my pillow, that’s for sure.”  
  
However, as Tektus left no successor, it remains uncertain who will take up the mantle to lead the family. They’re stymied by the loss of a second High Confessor—and Kaelyn doesn’t know whether to be nervous that no one volunteers to lead, or relieved no one attempts to assert their will over the family. In the next days and many after it, the Children must grapple with the sweeping changes and grieve their losses.  
  
Brother Kane remains one of the few openly disgruntled. “Hmm. What has Far Harbor done to merit Atom’s mercy?”  
  
Kaelyn answers, “That’s the thing about mercy. It isn’t granted because some deserves it, but because they can achieve greater things by letting them go than by making them pay.”  
  
A nearby brother loudly proclaims, “What does Atom need with one little dock anyway? Let Far Harbor have it.”  
  
She holds back a snort, if only just. Just a few days ago they were crowing for blood. She doesn’t know if he really believes it or is just touting the new party line, but either way works.  
  
Mai corrals Kaelyn toward a pallet, with strict orders to not get up until she’s slept. Hope for rest is a distant dream. Curling up in a ball, weapons in easy reach, Kaelyn closes her eyes. When she opens them, the room is brighter, somehow. Not from the lighting; the sun cannot touch the subterranean interior, and the bottle lights are consistent day and night. No, the makeshift dormitory has only two other dozing occupants. Outside the shack, the Nucleus bustles with fresh energy as people clean up the catwalks. Ignoring her grumbling stomach, Kaelyn wanders to the infirmary to check on Aubert.  
  
Her pallet is empty.  
  
Kaelyn glances around, but she hasn’t miscalculated the number of beds, nor is Aubert anywhere else in the infirmary.  
  
The Archemist finds Kaelyn, then. Her watery eyes brim with sympathy.

—

The funeral is held scant hours later, when Kaelyn’s eyes are still hot and heavy. The funeral needs to be done quickly, to curtail any diseases that might breed and infect the living. Devin stands by Kaelyn’s side and if they lean into each other during the ceremony, well, none of the other mourners present are going to care.  
  
Aubert is interred among the bodies she once protected.  
  
As Kaelyn and Devin leave the crypt, they pass a man with his head bowed, murmuring, “May I see a kingdom reunited before I am Divided.”  
  
Four days after Tektus’s exile, Kaelyn and Ware sit together on the steps, sharing an anti-rad brew and some quiet, when a zealot rushes to them, frantic and wide-eyed.  
  
“Grand Zealot! There’s a group of strangers outside! They claim they want to talk!”  
  
Rising to his feet, Ware catches the frantic guard’s arm. “Visitors, you say? Then we’ll talk to ’em first.” He gestures for Kaelyn and two nearby zealots to follow him out into the courtyard.  
  
There are, indeed, a half-dozen people milling outside: Acadian synths, bogged down with all the bags they can safely carry. Chase does not count among them, for good reason, but Kaelyn suspects she lurks nearby.  
  
The designated spokeswoman steps forward. “We heard of your upheaval in recent days. Far Harbor wished to convey their well-wishes in this uncertain time, but were unable to withstand the Deep Fog. So here we are. We also bring a gift from DiMA: his personal holotapes of conversations with Confessor Martin, who we understand was much loved here. May memories of his gentle voice guide the new High Confessor.”  
  
An argument breaks out among the strained zealots.  
  
“Why would Far Harbor—?”  
  
“We don’t need anything from them!”  
  
“Are you saying, Brother Jarrod, that you don’t like boiled mirelurk?” Ware strides towards them, as steadfast and grounded as ever. “Because in that case, I’ll be happy to take your portion.”  
  
That ends any dissent. While the envoy is not permitted inside the Nucleus, they linger in the courtyard, under guard, as Ware enlists a number of zealots and curious busybodies to help carry in the food and medications.  
  
Kaelyn can’t help a flush of resentment that the supplies hadn’t come just one day earlier. Maybe they could have saved Aubert. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she tries to hold back the hot prickle in her eyes.  
  
Sister Mai inspects everything she can get a hold of. “You know, if I could get supplies like these more often, we would be better off.”  
  
“Caps transcend all languages,” Kaelyn says. “I’m sure Far Harbor and Acadia would be happy to trade.”  
  
When the supplies have all been divided, the synth envoy leaves as suddenly as it arrived, unwilling to push the Children too far. It’s a tentative balance that hangs between them now.  
  
One of the zealots looks thoughtfully at the turned backs of the synths as they retreat. “In the end, we are all Atom’s children.“  
  
That gives Kaelyn a measure of hope.  
  
Ware shifts on his feet. “Well, it’ll take more than food to mend any rifts, but it’s a start.” His black eyes fix on her. “I’ve got a feeling you have a hand in this.”  
  
“I might. Your peoples need to heal the rift between you.”  
  
“‘Your peoples’?” he repeats archly.  
  
Realizing her mistake, Kaelyn sighs. No more deceit. “I belong to both and neither. It’s time for me to go home, I think.”  
  
To her surprise, Ware is thoughtful rather than angry. “And where’s home for you?”  
  
“Across the sea. The Commonwealth. My friends are waiting for me to come back, now that the worst of the island’s troubles are over.”  
  
Ware cocks an eyebrow. “Long way away. And there ain’t no guarantees of peace. Anything can still go wrong. We’ve got some hard days ahead of us.”  
  
“I know. There’s always a chance of that. But, I’d like to think, there’s a chance for peace now, too. And maybe the next time tensions run high, you might just remember this.”  
  
Later that day, Kaelyn says her quiet goodbyes. Mai and Devin. The place where Aubert was interred in the crypt. Ware is the last she finds, leaning against the wall at the spot they first met. He hums low in his throat and offers her a wry smile. “Take care, my friend. Atom’s blessings.”  
  
For the first time, she can accept the sentiment without bitterness. “And His upon you.”  
  
With a final dose of rad-x, Kaelyn slips out the Nucleus and vanishes into the Fog. The route to Acadia is a familiar one after all these weeks, but she still gets turned around at the intersection with the felled pine. But at last through the haze, a number of figures become visible, then their muted voices bounce through the Fog-laden air. Except there are more figures than she remembers. Guards who must have kept their distance while the synths made their offer and, yes, there’s Chase prowling at the head of the group.  
  
But among the envoy’s guards is one Nick Valentine. Kaelyn breaks into a run and hurls herself at him, looping her arms around his neck. Valentine staggers back a step, his arms closing around her, a warm laugh in her ear. He kisses the top of her head and she knows it’s going to be alright.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mr Ninja Pineapple for betaing!
> 
> Recommended listening: [Mercy by Muse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yj8Xpdx60Ws).

When Kaelyn stops by Kasumi’s nook, the young woman is packing her tools away in their box, giving the task more attention than it perhaps requires. “Hey, listen. So everything in Acadia has been settled. I found my answers. But recently I’ve been thinking a lot about your original mystery: me. And why you showed up here in the first place. I hurt Kenji and Rei by leaving, didn’t I? Should I go back? They need a daughter. They deserve to have one.”  
  
Kaelyn halts beside Kasumi’s workbench. Her latest project involves a home-made compass and several lightbulbs, but their purpose can’t be gleaned from a casual look. “The question is, do you want to be that daughter?”  
  
Kasumi clears space on the bench and pulls herself up to sit with her legs swinging, and pats the space beside her in an invitation Kaelyn accepts. She purses her lips, then drags her lower lip between her teeth. “I miss my grandfather. And the boathouse where we used to sing old shanties or make up new lyrics. Instant win if you could ever find a word that rhymes with orange. On the hottest nights, we’d sit on the jetty with Nuka-Cola my mom somehow chilled. Yeah... maybe I’m a synth, but I can be their daughter, too, right?”  
  
The original case feels so distant now. But with the problems on the island sorted—Kaelyn hopes—it’s time, she thinks, to return to the Commonwealth. “If that’s what you want, we can escort you home when you’re ready.” Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Valentine rattling down the stairs to lean in the doorway with his fedora tipped low over his face.  
  
“Home…” Kasumi clicks her heels together. “Funny how the meaning of that word never changed. I’ll have to say goodbye to everyone and pack my things. Don’t leave without me!” She slides off the workbench and darts away to her quarters.  
  
The moment she’s gone Valentine strides into the room, making a beeline for Kaelyn. He grabs her face between both hands, making her start at the lines of cold metal caging her cheek, and turns her head up to meet his hot gaze. “Are you alright?”  
  
Kaelyn reaches up to curl her fingers around his wrist. No pulse threads under his skin, but she doesn’t need it to notice how agitated he is. “I’m fine, Nick. Why wouldn’t I be?”  
  
“Because,” he says, quietly, carefully, “DiMA and Faraday rifled through your memories like a photo album.”  
  
Kaelyn stiffens, eyes going wide. A shard of panic, at once cold and hot, pierces her chest. She jerks back and he lets go of her at once. _No. He can’t know. He can’t._  
  
Valentine searches her face. “It’s true, isn’t it? God.”  
  
Her lips tingle. “How did you find out?”  
  
“DiMA told me everything. Confessed, really. I guess guilt got the better of him.” Valentine cups her cheek again, as gentle as before. “Are you sure you’re alright?”  
  
Swallowing, she reaches up to cover his hand with her own. “I’ve been getting headaches since they—” she shakes her head to clear it. “But they’re not as bad as they were. I hope they’ll fade away given enough time.”  
  
“You evidently felt you couldn’t come to me about this.” His voice is soft and—disappointed. “Why’s that?”  
  
“Nick, I— I didn’t want to widen the rift between you and DiMA. You and I weren’t doing so well at the time and I didn’t want to hurt you more.”  
  
“It's not your job to manage my relationship with DiMA. ’Specially not by hiding his actions, because what he did ain’t on you.” His unhappy gaze trails over the spot where her fingers cover his. “When DiMA told me Chase found you and you’d been out for hours, I was so worried and angry. But it wasn’t your fault at all. I’m sorry for believing the worst of you—that you’d go back on your word and run into the Fog to lose yourself.”  
  
Funny how a simple apology can ease the remaining knot of hurt in her heart. Maybe in hindsight, this is the reaction she could have anticipated had she told him earlier, but—she’d felt so isolated. “You weren’t wrong to doubt me. I didn’t have a good track record up to that point. Please don’t beat yourself up over it.”  
  
“That’s being remarkably fair.”  
  
“I can afford to be, now that it’s over.”  
  
Valentine doesn’t share the sentiment. “I should have known better. And DiMA… after what he did to you, well, I’d understand if you don’t want to be within fifty feet of him again.”  
  
“I don’t,” she agrees. “Being in the same room as him or Faraday makes my skin crawl. But he’s your brother, Nick.”  
  
“That doesn’t give him a pass on hurting you. Every scrap of shame he feels about it—he deserves it. Another thing he has to to make up for.”  
  
“No,” she says, sharp. Then softer, “No. See, this is why I didn’t want you to know. I’m not going to ask you to choose between me and DiMA.”  
  
“Not by taking the choice outta my hands, you aren’t.” He stops, gathers himself, and when he continues his voice is softer. “The truth ain’t always easy to hear, but next time do me a favor and not keep this sort of thing secret from me.”  
  
Valentine’s gaze is a steady, relentless thing and as Kaelyn looks over his dear face, she knows she can’t deny him what he asks for. “Done.”  
  
Kaelyn shuffles closer so she can fold her arms around him, and he’s more than happy to return the gesture. Leaning into his chest, she lets him take her weight and he rests his chin on top of her head.  
  
He says, then, quietly, “I’ve been thinking about how DiMA can face justice. Sending him to confess to the Harborfolk is as good as a death sentence. And now he has to make up for what he's done to you on top of everything else. We can't imprison him, and I don't think community service quite covers it.”  
  
Kaelyn pulls back to see his face. “But what if—it can? I'm not talking picking up litter, but giving Far Harbor the resources to flourish? Protecting them? Enforcing a peace treaty with the Children? It’s hard to just survive out here, and sharing resources will go a long way to help.”  
  
“Yeah, and how much of that is worth someone’s life?”  
  
“How is it any different from a judge deciding what prison sentence is worth a murder? Nothing ever can completely measure up to the harm caused, but that doesn’t mean we can’t try.”  
  
Valentine considers this, thoughtful and quiet and maybe a little surprised. Then his gaze flicks over her. “As one of the wronged parties, you got anything you’d like to see in return?”  
  
“I want DiMA to stop assuming he has the right to dictate other people’s fates. I want him to stop dropping his Acadian ideals whenever the going gets tough.”  
  
He brushes his thumb over her lower lip. “More than fair on your part, doll. Guess I have some more things to mull over.”  
  
It’s evidently a one-person job, so Kaelyn lets him go. But as she studies the slope of his turned back, she says softly, “Nick. You asked me for advice, before. I never—had the chance to resolve anything with Shaun. If you get an opportunity to talk things out with DiMA, come to an understanding, then my advice is to take it.”  
  
She doesn’t need to call after him; his hearing is keen enough.  
  
Valentine pauses on the threshold, turning his head enough that she can see him nod, and then he is gone.

—

Kaelyn lies on her bed, an arm flung over her eyes. Although just a few hours ago she had cuddled with Valentine on this very mattress, those aren’t the memories that press down on her now. Richter’s face, half-blackened and a neat red hole above his right eyebrow. The poisonous resentment burning in Tektus’s eyes as he turned away from the Nucleus. Aubert’s wan smile.  
  
The door creaks open, a prickle of cold air washing over her. A finger strokes her arm, so light she could be imagining it.  
  
“You awake, doll?”  
  
She moves her arm to peer up at Valentine. “Yeah. What’s up?”  
  
His expression is as sober as she’s ever seen it. “I’m going to dole out DiMA’s judgment now.”  
  
“Nick, are you sure about this?”  
  
“You said it was my call to make, so I’ve decided. If you want to come with, now’s the time. If not, I understand.”  
  
Scrubbing her hands over her face, Kaelyn lowers her legs over the side of the bed. “No, I’ll—see this through.”  
  
With a single nod, Valentine offers her his arm. “Let’s get this done.”  
  
Traversing the stairs seems to take three times as long from the basement of Acadia to ground level; surely a trick of malleable human perception that Valentine does not suffer from.  
  
Upon their entry to the telescope room, DiMA stands in a single, fluid motion. Sensing the solemn air, he only says, “Brother.”  
  
Valentine grunts in acknowledgment. “I think you know why we’re here. Now, DiMA, this is a right pickle. If you confess to Far Harbor, you’ll be killed.”  
  
“Not just me, brother, but all of Acadia would be endangered if Far Harbor knew. That is why we had best keep silent on this matter—”  
  
“Not so fast. That doesn’t mean you can’t do your time. So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to give Far Harbor the blueprints for the Fog condensers, so they can make and maintain ‘em themselves. That way they aren’t reliant on you in case you decide to pull the plug on the wind turbines. Then you’re gonna change how things are run in this place. Acadia can’t survive if you keep making decisions in the shadows and covering it up. Let your people have a say, DiMA.”  
  
“How does this serve your purpose, brother? The more people who are aware of sensitive information, the less safe they are.”  
  
“When problems arise, they might surprise you with answers you hadn’t considered. Sanctuaries are built on trust, not deception. And you want this to be a place of refuge for synths, right?”  
  
Light reflects off the bulbs in the back of DiMA’s head when he inclines his head. “You are correct.”  
  
Next, you arrange a treaty between Acadia and Far Harbor as well as between Far Harbor and the Nucleus. The terms of that treaty are gonna be real swell for the Harborfolk. Acknowledge the debt Avery has the right to call on in the future.”  
  
DiMA, who listened without a flicker in his expression, now asks, “You would have me put my own people at a disadvantage for the sake of Far Harbor?”  
  
“No, I’d have you make up for what you’ve done. If that means your people have to half the number of tatos in their soup, remember you’re getting off light. In the old world—in Detective Nick Valentine’s world—murderers saw the electric chair. Last but not least, you owe Kaelyn here an apology.”  
  
She only has time to raise an eyebrow before DiMA’s attention switches to her. “I am sorry for viewing your memories without your consent. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, please tell me.”  
  
“Well, there was one thing I thought of,” Valentine says. “Delete your memories of what you found in her head. You don’t get to forget what you did to her, but you don’t have a right to the memories you pawed through. So get rid of what you found, but not the knowledge that you did it.”  
  
Poise forgotten, Kaelyn all but gapes at Valentine. He glances sideways at her and even in profile his expression is—very soft. She clears her throat. “Sounds good to me.”  
  
DiMA’s face goes wooden in what Kaelyn has learned is his processing face, and then he inclines his head. “At once.”  
  
The process takes several hours. While DiMA rests in his chair interface, Faraday monitoring the terminals, Kaelyn and Valentine find a quiet nook to wait. Squishing together on a bench, she smooths the wrinkles from the front of her jacket and toys with the zipper. He claims her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.  
  
Closing her eyes, Kaelyn tries to think of the joyous tail-wagging Dogmeat will greet her with and not Aubert’s empty pallet.  
  
A nervous Faraday finds them and invites them back to the telescope room. DiMA stands by one of the terminals on the far side of the room, out of sight from the entryway. Only Valentine’s bolstering presence at Kaelyn’s back gives her the courage to take her eyes off DiMA and Faraday to read the text scrawled on the screen. It’s a list of files with an obscure naming convention, flickering blue on black—except for the final string.  
  
_DELETE ALL? Y/N_  
  
“These are my memories of your memories,” DiMA says, and Kaelyn almost tamps down on a flinch. “All of them.”  
  
She peers at the screen again, but there’s nothing for an organic mind to make sense of. How strange to see her memories—her data—stored on a hard drive. “How do I know this is it?”  
  
“You have nothing but my word,” DiMA says, his voice soft and modulated.  
  
Kaelyn gives him a flinty look. If old synths have the same tells as a lying human, now would be an excellent time to know. She wonders if she has any choice but to believe he wouldn’t lie to her now with Valentine watching. “There are no redundancies? Backups?”  
  
“None. We have temporarily isolated this terminal from the server.”  
  
With one finger, Kaelyn presses Y.  
  
The terminal executes the command, scrawling a list of deleted files. Kaelyn watches, unblinking, until the terminal reports success and returns to the main menu.  
  
DiMA makes a soft noise—relief? Regret? “I have one last favor to ask. Please, take this holotape and give it to Avery. It contains an apology for her, and informs her that I personally owe her a debt she can call on at any time. She can ignore my message if she wishes; I expect no response.”  
  
Nick plucks the proffered tape from DiMA and pockets it. “Can do.”

—

That night Kaelyn rolls over to find the other half of the mattress too spacious. When she next floats back to awareness, Valentine is sliding into bed beside her, his lips brushing against her cheek.  
  
She snuggles against him. “There you are.”  
  
“Here I am. Didn’t mean to wake ya. Just—wanted to talk to DiMA again. Work things out.”  
  
Running a hand over his shoulder, she murmurs, “Feel better?”  
  
“Yeah. I do.”

—

Kaelyn and Valentine must then pack their own bags and say their own goodbyes. Miranda jokingly wishes she could come with, but the Commonwealth isn’t yet safe for her dream of traveling. To Chase, Kaelyn bequeaths her power armor, in order to better protect Acadia and Far Harbor. Even Dejen gives her a respectful nod. There’s only one piece of outstanding business before they can leave.  
  
DiMA.  
  
Valentine stands so close beside Kaelyn his coat brushes her thigh, and if she tilts her head she can hear the whirr of his internal mechanics. Unseen, his hand braces the small of her back.  
  
Thankfully, DiMA keeps his distance, hovering by his chair. “I understand you are taking Kasumi back to the Commonwealth. What you leave behind is an island at peace. It’s a heavy burden, what we’ve done, but now the Nucleus, Far Harbor and Acadia will all flourish. Together. I’ll oversee talks between the Children, Far Harbor and Acadia to ensure this peace remains. I’ll also do as Nick says regarding the terms of Acadia’s treaty with Far Harbor.”  
  
“DiMA,” Valentine says. “You’ve got good intentions, but for the love of whatever you find holy don’t mess with anyone’s heads in the future. Literally or figuratively. You want to show synths are no better or worse than humans? Prove it by talking with ’em like they’re people instead of pulling strings from the shadows.”  
  
DiMA’s expression flickers, as do the screens of the terminal bay he’s connected to. “Yes... I see the wisdom of your words, brother. With luck, it will be easier now.” His attention then shifts to Kaelyn and she feels a chill. “I have a proposition, if you would hear me. I would ask you take a place in Far Harbor to welcome synths who arrive and guide them to Acadia. Avery—she was supposed to be a bridge between human- and synthkind. Only it was artificial. But you—you are the advocate we need. A human who sees synths as people and is willing to fight for our kind.”  
  
Kaelyn’s expression hardens. “We brought peace to the island, but that doesn’t mean I want to stay here. Sorry, but no.” _I want to go home._  
  
DiMA inclines his head. “Of course. I understand.” A pause. Then: “Forgive me.”  
  
“I can’t.”  
  
Maybe one day she can offer DiMA mercy, but not yet. Not when that dull ache still nestles in the base of her skull. She still can’t look Faraday in the eye, and being in DiMA’s presence makes her break out in goosebumps.  
  
Valentine murmurs, “Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done, and penance more will do.’” Louder: “You have a lot of work ahead of you. You’ve got a lot of good in you, but that doesn’t justify bad methods. No more crimes, you hear me?”  
  
“No more,” DiMA echoes. “It has been good to see you again, brother.”  
  
Valentine touches a finger to the brim of his fedora. “Likewise... brother.”  
  
They meet Kasumi in the car park, studying the observatory one final time. With a wave to Miranda, who stands on the steps, they set off on their final trek through the Fog. Sunset is a soft rose ball that doesn’t hurt to look at, sinking into the black trees, and evening proper settles around them by the time they reach the pier. When Far Harbor learns of their imminent departure, they are forbidden from leaving without a proper farewell party, which involves off-key sea shanties and enough alcohol to make Vadim Bobrov weep with joy.  
  
Much like the Captain’s Dance celebration, tables are dragged outside to the dock and a buffet set up. Even Mitch’s uncle joins in, though he remains as crotchety as ever. Bertha squeezes Kaelyn’s legs in a tight hug then darts away back to her brother. Valentine slips away to have a quiet word with Avery, the tape exchanging hands, and her smile is a touch stiff afterward.  
  
After warning Kasumi away from the more potent local brews, Kaelyn proceeds to buy out Far Harbor’s entire stock of Vim! to bring home. Preston and Piper will love it, and maybe she can share a bottle or two around HQ as well.  
  
“A toast!” Mitch shouts, to thunderous approval. “To our island, our home, and our mainlanders! May we not die in the Fog! Bottoms up!”  
  
Kaelyn and Kasumi rise early, just after dawn, and with Valentine they head down to the dock where Avery and the Mariner already lounge.  
  
  
“Hope you didn’t think you could leave without saying goodbye.” Avery shakes Kaelyn and Valentine’s hands in turn. “You’ve, well, you’ve done a lot around here. I heard our offering to the Children was well-received. There’s a lot of bad blood on the island, but we now have a shot at making this work.”  
  
“Keep Allen in line, take it slow, and don’t get greedy,” Kaelyn says. “The Children are—well, they have a lot of changes to get used to. They aren’t at their best right now.”  
  
The Mariner steps up, her glasses fogged with chill and her beanie riding low on her forehead. “So this is it. You’ve been a true friend through this. The Hull can take anything the island throws at it. And,” she says with a rueful smile, “the Red Death won’t threaten Far Harbor again.”  
  
Kaelyn pulls the Mariner into a hug. This is the last time they’ll see each other, she knows. After a moment, the Mariner rests her hands on Kaelyn’s back and squeezes. When they withdraw, the Mariner adjusts her glasses and waves a severe finger at her. “None of that. No going soft.” Then her face loosens into a smile. “Live well, my friend.”  
  
Clearing her throat, Kaelyn looks to their boat sitting quietly in the gray water, then to Kasumi. “Ready?”  
  
Determination hardens her expression. “Ready.”

—

Kasumi leans over the side of the boat, catching sea spray in her hands, and suddenly points to a distant gray ridge. “Look! I know where we are! My father and I come here to fish in May.”  
  
The remaining hours stretch by in a restless whip of salty wind and spindrift. Kaelyn tucks a curling lock of hair behind her ear and smirks at Valentine, who has been forced to secure his fedora in her pack or risk losing it to the jaws of the sea.  
  
There’s no cover on the ocean, and Kasumi’s mounting excitement is tempered by apprehension when the headland comes into view, with the factory to the south and the beach house to the north. Kasumi smooths out the salt-stiff wrinkles of her coveralls. “Oh, man. What do I tell them? Do you think they’ll be happy to see me? What if they’re angry—”  
  
“Relax, kid,” Valentine chuckles. “I think they just want you home safe.”  
  
She bites her lip. “You know, I thought getting answers would fix things, but I’m still as uncertain as ever.”  
  
Kaelyn says, “Honestly, Kasumi? That’s normal. With no way to prove who’s synth and who’s human, we’ll never know for sure.”  
  
“You don’t trust that DiMA has it right?” After a moment, Kasumi snorts quietly. “Who am I kidding, of course you don’t.”  
  
It’ll be some time before she can hear his name without a phantom pang of fear, but for now Kaelyn does her best to focus on there here and now. “He did try to convince me I was a synth when I first walked through the door. I wish I had solid answers for you, Kasumi, but sometimes we don’t get closure.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re right about that. All I can do now is go home.”  
  
Two figures rush from the house when the boat’s motor heralds their arrival, and Kenji and Rei meet them on the docks. When the boat is moored, Kenji offers a hand to haul them out of the boat one by one.  
  
Kasumi looks between her parents. “Mom. Dad. I’m home.”  
  
Her parents crush her into a hug.  
  
“Oh, my baby!” Rei says when she lets go, stepping back to take hold of Kasumi’s shoulders. “You’re back safe!”  
  
His face trembling with relief and joy, Kenji says, “Welcome home, Kasumi.” He rests a hand atop Rei’s.  
  
Rei examines her daughter’s face, turning her this way and that, searching for changes. “Kasumi, does this mean— you know we’re your parents, right? You’re not a synth.”  
  
Kasumi blinks and tears and ducks her head. “I know, Mom. I’m sorry. I was just so confused. I wanted to go somewhere. Anywhere.”  
  
Whether or not she actually believes what she says, Kaelyn doesn’t know, but it’s safer this way. With no means to tell who’s synth and who’s human without invasive procedures, they might never know for sure which one Kasumi is.  
  
Kenji says, “It’s okay, Kasumi. You’re home now.”  
  
Kaelyn decides there’s a teachable moment to be had here. “Listen to Kasumi next time. Don’t just try to keep her safe. Talk to her.”  
  
Kenji is a changed man from the fearful, agitated father yelling into a dead radio. Deeper lines have been scored at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth, but now his face is lit with relief. “I know. I will. I held on so tightly I almost lost her. Thank you. Thank you both. You have made our family whole again.”  
  
“If any of you ever need help again, you know where to find us.” Valentine tips his hat. “If you folks are alright, we’ll leave you to talk it out. See you around, Kenji.”  
  
Kenji nods back. “Goodbye, Nick. Best of luck to you and your partner in the future.”  
  
Kaelyn and Valentine trade a look, trying to hide their smiles. Partner. The word may have just taken on a second meaning. Reunited at last, the Nakanos return to their house to talk—but not before Kasumi hugs both Kaelyn and Valentine and offers her own thanks.  
  
Kaelyn steps off the dock onto the sand. Commonwealth sand. The freeway overpass stretches and creaks on the ridge, spearing north to the border, if states even have meaning anymore. Home. She’s home. The word will always carry grief on its back, but—even so. There’s a gladness beside it, too.  
  
“Well,” Valentine says, “guess we’re back to good old-fashioned Commonwealth dangers.”  
  
Kaelyn says, “No more gulpers.”  
  
“Anglers.”  
  
“Radioactive Fog.”  
  
“Fog crawlers.”  
  
“Improbably difficult cases—no, wait, we’ve still got those.”  
  
With a chuckle, Valentine takes her hand and they walk across the muddy beach. His skin is warm from the sun and smooth from wear, and she loves the rasp of his palm against hers. They’ll have to tell their friends, in time, and get used to the odd looks. But for now she’s just going to enjoy breathing air that isn’t trying to kill her and feeling Valentine’s fingers threaded through her own.  
  
“In this line of work, you have to expect the unexpected. Still, never had a case quite like Kasumi’s.”  
  
Kaelyn raises an eyebrow. “Really? Never?”  
  
The smile he gives her is downright sly. “Well, there was that one time I got hired by someone who’d been frozen in a vault for two hundred years. That one’s been a doozy so far...”  
  
Kaelyn gives him an affectionate shove and he catches her arm again, this time pulling her to a halt. Valentine tugs her hand to his chest, over the spot where his heart would be. Instead of its beat, she feels the whirr of machinery in a steady rhythm that is at once comforting and alien.  
  
“Never thought I—not the old Nick, me—would ever get something like this, but I’m sure glad it’s you.”  
  
Kaelyn flexes her fingers in his shirt, feeling the fabric shift over his artificial dermis. She’s still wounded, still hurting from fragile scabs old and new that are prone to cracking at a moment’s notice. But the good, and the bad, and the love—she’ll remember it all.

 

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That marks my first finished longfic over 50k words. If you can believe it, my outline was for eleven chapters. By the end of the first draft I had fifteen, and after editing I had what you see before you. Huge thanks to everyone who read, gave kudos, and/or commented! You guys rock.
> 
> Until next time!


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